


In the Here and Now

by goodworkperky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asset!Sam, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodworkperky/pseuds/goodworkperky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam goes down during a mission, Bucky starts to revert to the Winter Soldier mentality. While he isolates himself from SHIELD and the Avengers, Natasha uses all her resources and finds Sam alive and under Hydra control. Now roles reverse and Bucky has to figure out how to bring back the Sam that he used to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It is the witching hour. And where most people are settled comfortably in a deep sleep, the team is flying over Bordeaux in a small carrier plane as they lace up combat boots and check weapons. Sam loads magazine clips into the easy access pockets of his belt as Steve gives them the bare details of the mission. Standard mechanical dismantling of the Hydra base, complete transfer of files to Hill then erasure. Bucky points out strategic points for controlled detonations. 

As Barnes starts to put on his Kevlar vest, Sam comes up behind him to finish with the straps. His hands linger on Bucky’s sides, and they don’t speak for a moment. Only the quiet hum of the Stark plane cuts through the silence. 

“Be careful out there,” Sam says in a breath.

“And miss you saving my ass?” Bucky turns with a small smile playing on his lips. Teeth scrape slowly over lower lip. “You know all those aerials get me hot and bothered,” he jokes. 

Sam throws a light jab at his boyfriend’s shoulder and laughs. “You’re insatiable.” After a beat the easy grin slips slightly and he finds himself holding tight to metal bicep. “Seriously, Buck, don’t risk it. If it comes down to it, promise me you won’t risk your life.” 

Bucky looks at him curiously for a second. “Where is this coming from?” 

“The closer we come to taking down Hydra, the harder and dirtier they fight. I need to know you’re not going to go just as hard as they will.” Sam rests a fist against Bucky’s chest. “I don’t want to have to worry about you.” 

“You won’t,” Barnes replies. “I’m going to watch your back, Sam. Always.”

“Hey, that's not promise.” 

Bucky grins and taps a fist lightly against Sam’s chest right over his heart. “I promise.” He kisses him quickly, lips barely touching before they pull apart. Sam can’t help but wish it were longer, that they had all the time in the world. But here they are in the metaphorical trenches and dragging battle weary limbs through the mud. 

Natasha comes up next to them as she adjusts the tiny arsenal around her wrists. “Honeymoon’s over, lovebirds. We’re coming up on the drop in ten.” The cargo doors open slowly and they can see the lights of the city below twinkling like stars had decided to land. “Hey, Steve! Guess whose turn it is to jump without a chute?” She grins like a kid, saunters to the edge of the plane with her hair whipping around like she is her own private hurricane. Fingers wiggle in a wave of goodbye and she doesn’t jump so much as let herself fall. 

Sam heaves a wistful sigh as if he is mildly disappointed with assassin antics. “When am I going to stop being your personal air service?” 

“When you stop catching us,” Steve and Bucky replies simultaneously with grins on their lips. 

Sam utters a curse beneath his breath and the other two make sounds of shock and awe like boys at the playground. The airman shakes his head and jumps after Natasha, the jet engines of his suit firing up. 

Somewhere between getting Natasha safely on the roof and helping Steve take out Hydra agents, something goes wrong. They all had a clear cut plan of how this would go, of how they would win. But here they are, dodging bullets and outnumbered enough that even they can admit to it. Sam twists and turns, flips and dives with acrobatic ease. Bullets and RPGs punch the air centimeters from him. Maybe he could have made it, maybe they could have all gotten out of this. But Bucky yells sharply, the coms short, Sam glances down for a moment too long. Armor piercing rounds rip right through Kevlar like it was cotton blend. Sam falters in the middle of a turn to involuntarily going into a spin. The stars and the bursts of light from guns mix together like a monotone kaleidoscope. Somehow, Sam rights himself, gets a hand down to his left side and his fingers come away wet. Blood dries quickly in the rush of air. 

“Falcon,” Bucky’s voice comes in hard pants, broken and static with intercepted coms. “…can’t…reach Widow…pinned….Extract.” 

Sam looks down. It’s a through and through, and nothing he can fix in the air. Teeth clench and he takes a breath. “I’m on it.” He wobbles and tries to keep him wings level as his eyes search for Natasha. But there is no other illumination other than starlight and a few dim streetlamps. He doesn’t get more than a few more meters when he’s hit again. This time it’s something larger and hits the suit. Engines knock out of alignment and sputter their way out of life.

The thing about crashing in a jetpack is that it is a completely solitary experience. There is no one else to share this soul numbing fear with. Everything goes silent like the volume has been knocked out on a television set, but the picture is still good—quality sharpens and there is the sudden awareness of just how vivid everything is. And there is a sharp pain that runs along his spine that accompanies the pain of the bullet wound. Even those are muted. Then suddenly, as if just becoming aware of it, Sam hears his heartbeat loud as thunder in his ears, listens as it seems to slow its pace to crawl its way up into his throat. Instinctively, fingers fumble for the emergency chute. It jams. Breath stops. Think of something better. He thinks of coffee, Bucky, running, Bucky’s hands in his. The ground is rushing up to meet him faster than he can think of all the things he’s ever wanted to say. Sam Wilson closes his eyes wonders if Riley’s fall was the same. 

Impact comes in the form of a solid body, a strong arm wrapping around him and holding him close. Sam breathes and synapses fire. It’s Bucky. Sam knows Bucky as well as he knows himself, committed every inch of him to memory, memorized every touch. They hit the ground hard, skidding along on Bucky’s metal arm. 

“Sam,” Bucky breathes, propping himself up carefully on metal arm, organic hand ghosting over the airman’s body as if afraid to touch. “Sam, are you hurt?” 

There is no time to answer before the building surges beneath them, pushing up against them as if it were about to regurgitate. Sam and Bucky exchange a glance before Bucky holds him close again, puts his metal arm around their heads. The building collapses beneath them, around them, over them. Sound blends until it’s just a roar filling every inch of them. Then there is silence again.

“Sam? Sam, wake up,” Bucky whispers urgently. His breath is warm against his partner’s ear. 

A painful inhale fills lungs slowly with dust and ash. Exhale and it's like scraping razorblades along trachea. But Sam keeps breathing, keeping scraping insides raw like he’s trying to cut out bits and pieces of himself. Blood pools beneath the tongue and when he swallows it soothes sandpaper throat. Through the overwhelming, struggling beat of his heart sounding in his ear, Sam hears his name spill from Bucky's lips. Three little letters get mangled in a frantic sound. And Sam wants to reply but his tongue doesn't seem to want to move right and words get caught in a throat too choked with a concrete mixture of ash and blood. 

The airman forces his eyes open to see Bucky squeezed beneath the tight spaces of the collapsed building with a penlight clenched between his teeth. Metal arm wedges between rubble and Sam's body, the air clicking and whirring with the sound of his gears straining. "Hold on, Sam," he's saying. And Sam doesn’t know why he sounds so worried until he sees that his legs are trapped beneath a ton of rubble. He can’t feel a thing. 

"Steve's on his way. We'll get you out, Sam. I promise." But Bucky looks over his shoulder to see bone breaking through his right pant leg. Blood mixes as if to say they are in this together. He yells Steve's name at the top of his lungs--Hydra agents be damned. He calls again and the sudden sound of shifting rubble grates frayed nerves. Steve Rogers stares down the barrel of a Derringer. "Help," Bucky pleads with eyes widened with fear. 

"Shift over," Steve says as he shoves his body up against Bucky's. Less than a foot above their heads is hundreds of pounds of concrete slabs, grate floors, sparking cables. The super soldier lifts with his legs as Bucky uses his arms. Between them, they barely manage to lift it an inch

"Stop. Bucky, stop." Sam's voice is like metal scraping along gravel, a death rattle in the chest cavity. "Find Nat then come back.”

Sweat rolls between Bucky's shoulder blades, down his sides. He tries to push himself harder but his body is on the brink and Sam's wings are getting hot beneath them and the air feels like a slow roasting oven. Steve is grabbing his arm saying, "Natasha already set our bombs and got herself to the perimeter. Hydra set off an explosion before our own, we have to get Sam out of here to clear our blast." 

Teeth clench until jaw hurts and tears prick the corners of his eyes, Bucky strains along with Steve and the slab lifts higher. Rogers hooks an arm around Sam's torso to drag him out. But something gets caught and Sam won't budge. 

"Steve, go." Sam orders in a rasp. It's like breathing underwater. Fractured ribs, possible collapsed lung. He looks at Bucky. "--promised. You promised." 

Bucky’s breath hitches and he runs his tongue over his top lip, worries the bottom between his teeth. "I can't." 

Sam forces his mouth into a smirk that doesn't fit. "Too late. Pararescue remember?” Grey spots chew at his vision. He raises a hand weakly and taps it against the other’s chest. He’s bleeding out on the rubble, bleeding through his clothes. He wonders briefly what would happen if he never went on that run, never went flying again, never helped go after Bucky. It’s not worth thinking about. “Steve, please.” 

Steve looks startled and for a moment looks like he’s contemplating whether or not to ignore Sam’s plea. He doesn’t. “We can’t lose you, Sam.” But Sam doesn’t hear him. His eyes are closed, breathing shallow. 

All Bucky knows is that one moment he's trying to lift an impossible weight, and the next Steve has an arm around his chest. Fingers dig into the rubble and every inch feels like a mile. He doesn't know it, but Sam's name is coming from Bucky's throat in a broken scream--sounds like glass shattering, like pieces of himself are breaking. And when they finally hit open space, Bucky shoves Steve hard with both hands, searing pain radiating up the right arm. He bears all his weight on his left leg and begins a slow hop back toward the opening of the collapsed building. But Steve has his hands on Kevlar straps to drag him back. He dodges a left hook, lets the right connect.

"We're not leaving him," Bucky grits through clenched teeth. He keeps going and his foot slips on shifting rubble. It doesn't matter. If he cannot walk, he will crawl. Right arm is shooting bolts of pain. Closed fracture. 

Maybe Steve has always been a fraction away from the breaking point or maybe this is the tipping point. But he grabs Bucky again and lifts him onto his shoulder. "We have to go, Buck." There is no force in Roger's voice, no life.

Barnes takes hold of Steve's belt and propels himself into a flip to take down the super soldier. "You're Captain America," he spits venomously. "What happened to never leaving anyone behind?" 

Steve rushes at him suddenly and without warning. In the same movement, he takes the shield from his back and throws it up to cover them from their own controlled explosion. Sudden rush of air, feet leaving ground. The backlash hits them hard and they hit the ground harder, a sharp crack of the skull against debris. Breath rushes from lungs like a gut punch. Several long moments of silence as it rains concrete.

Bucky takes a moment to process and recollect memories that seem to have rearranged themselves on impact. "We killed him. We could have tried harder, Steve. We could have--"

"Don't do that, Bucky. Don't....He knew we couldn't have all made it. He told me to get you out." Steve wearily drags a hand beneath him to push himself up and he looks back at burning wreckage of the Hydra building.

Metal hand clenches and Bucky turns his face into the dirt to breath ash. The air is so hot it is like a burning, like purification. He breathes harder and faster. "We're supposed to be the good guys, and we left him. We killed, Sam." A beat and he pushes himself up. "We have to go back. Maybe the rubble shielded him from some of the blast." 

"Bucky--"

The assassin shoves him again. “You gave up on him. He could have made it.” A beat. Something inside seems to break. "I can't leave him, Steve. I can't." 

"I'll get a search team together and we'll find him," Steve promises with every ounce of determination he can muster. “But right now we have to find Natasha. I am sorry, Bucky. Maybe if…” Steve’s voice trails off and he realizes he is crying. Tears cut through the sweat and grime caked on his face. He scrubs his cheeks wearily with the back of his hand. “Most of Hydra will have been caught in the….I’ll give you a minute. Natasha and I will try and get coms back online to radio for backup.”

Bucky sits heavily on a broken light fixture and rakes his hair back roughly with a hard breath. There are too many emotions fighting for dominance in his chest. It’s confusing. He decides he doesn’t want to feel at all and stares blankly ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not find Sam’s body. And maybe Bucky should not have pulled out his IV or thrown his heart monitor through the hospital room window to send shattered glass tinkling like rain on sterile white floors, but there is a slight disconnect between brain and prosthetic limb. Steve does not move to stop him. The super soldier merely sits in the hospital chair still in dirtied uniform, hair heavy with dust. He is rubbing the lines in the palms of his hands like there is something there that will not wash out. Only when Bucky gets out of bed and starts an unsteady hop toward the door does Steve raise his head. 

“Bucky,” Rogers calls quietly, voice cracking. “Bucky, where are you going?” He sounds like a lost kid, doesn’t know what direction to go.

Still medicated from surgery to put him back together like a rag doll. Bucky stumbles and barely manages to catch himself on the door frame. He feels like he has been put through the spin cycle then shoved through the wringer. Too bad they cannot get inside him to fix the things that really hurt. Metal fingers clamp around the door frame and splinter wood. Pieces of himself are rearranging, unraveling, breaking. It gets harder to breath by the second. Soft hands hold him upright, brown eyes catch his stare. Bucky covers his eyes and swallows hard against Sam’s name rising in his throat. 

“Hey, Steve, can you give us a second?” Banner asks quietly. 

Steve looks as if he wants to speak but doesn’t. He leaves silently, hesitating in the doorway to watch Bruce gently guide Bucky to the plush hospital chair.

“You know,” Banner says almost under his breath as he leans against the wall, “somehow I’ve been persuaded to become the team doctor.” 

Bucky’s eyes shift off to the side, fixes on a small colorful potted plant at the bedside table. He moves his arm uncomfortably in its sling. “I’m not an Avenger.” 

A shrug. “Honorary member…kind of like Sam.”

“Are you going to be my therapist now? I’ve had enough of those the first two years back to last both lifetimes.” 

Bruce studies him for a moment and shakes his head only once, almost imperceptibly. “I’m your friend. I guess, in this moment, we all are. Sam does that—always.” He takes the glasses off his nose to tap it against the palm of his hand. Tears prick his eyes and he wipes them quickly with a murmured apology.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Bucky says without looking at the doctor. Because this is his fault. He should have been better prepared, should have done more. It should have been him. He could not feel any lower than if they had put him six feet deep. But these are not the things he says out loud. He knows this game. 

“This is the first loss you can remember. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but you have my number when you do. Whatever you need, just ask.”

An entire minute passes in silence only broken by the sounds of the nurses’ call station, the constant shuffling of feet. He wishes now that he had not broken the window. Everything is too loud and feels like it is thrumming in the marrow of his bones. He finally drags his gaze from the plant to meet Banner’s stare. His thumb traces the edge of its sling. “I’d like to go home.” A crack forms in the last syllable like a chasm is opening up in his chest. He clenches his teeth against the hard knot in his throat, the tears burning behind his eyes.

Bruce nods. “Do you want me to get Steve?”

“No,” he replies simply. The knockoff version of his serum means bones won’t heal for another week, and right now he wants to spend it curled beneath the sheets. His skin is already crawling from too much social contact. A finger hooks around the collar of the hospital gown. “Do you have anything I can borrow?” They took his combat clothes, all stained with blood and dirt. But everyone has spares in the trunk of their car. Bruce keeps three. 

The doctor nods. “I’ll get them for you.” 

They wait around for nearly an hour so Bruce can take another x-ray. Steve does not come back and Bucky sits in silence, watching as the doctor pulls up his scans on the Stark pad. And he tells him that his arm is nearly fully healed, that they can take the pins out of his leg in a couple days. Full recovery: five days. He hands Bucky a pair of crutches, offers him a ride home. 

The assassin takes the crutches and rises to his feet. “Thank you for your help.” Bucky moves as quickly as he can toward the door. Discomfort settles like a second skin, crawls up his spine like maggots making a nest. He isn’t sure yet that he wants to go home. But he does. He needs something that feels real and solid beneath his hand. 

Like a stranger, Bucky hesitates at the front door. It’s already four in the afternoon and the neighbor’s kids are spraying each other with the hose in the backyard. Their laughter cuts him like a back alley stabbing—visceral and unexpected. Reserve falls to the wayside and Bucky leans against the door frame before he can collapse on the front steps. The taxi driver is still there and watching him like a goddamn television show. With a stuttering breath, Bucky jams his key into the lock, shoves himself inside where he closes the door with a quiet click. The door handle dents with imprints of metal fingers. 

This does not feel like the space he had left only the night before. Someone else lives here. Someone else occupied the space beside Sam, kissed Sam, ate breakfast and laughed with Sam. Bucky wants nothing more than to flay himself open and scrub even the marrow of his bone. Nothing feels right. Like meeting Steve again yet for the first time, he is not quite sure who he is or suppose to be. High-pitched trill of the phone comes from the back pocket of borrowed jeans. Bucky knows who it is, knows they want reports and questioned answered. Lots of how this happened and who did what. But he doesn’t have to obey now and lets it keep ringing. 

Silence breathes and etches tension into every line of the assassin’s body, settles in every crevice like a permanent guest. It almost swallows the sounds of the phone ringing again. And it won’t stop—that ringing. It keeps goes like a scream that will not quit, and sets his teeth on edge. In his frustration, Bucky barely refrains from throwing his crutch across the room and instead tosses it like it is offensive. He limps heavily into the kitchen where his eyes go to two coffee mugs still half full. Organic finger traces the lettering of the USAF cup. 

_Sam pressing up against him in combat trousers and boots sans shirt. He sets his coffee next to Bucky’s to wrap his arm around Bucky’s waist. “We have time,” he says. A grin tugs at his lips as he kisses his boyfriend slowly. “We have time.”_

It is hard to breath. The air gets sucked out of his lungs and the room spins.

“Calm down,” a soft voice tells him in Russian. Natasha. When Bucky turns his head, the kitchen tiles are cool on his cheek. “Breathe, James.” 

Bucky clenches a hand over his chest, eyes squeeze shut. He takes a minute and uses the breathing techniques Sam taught him. He almost curls in on himself but does not bother asking how she got in. “How do normal people do it?” he asks in a murmur. The tears are right on the edge and burning behind his eyes but they won’t come. “How do people…?”

Natasha lays beside him when he makes it obvious that he won’t sit up. She pillows her head with her arm and shrugs slightly, but her eyes are red-rimmed and cheeks pink like they’ve been roughly wiped. “We just hide it better. Doesn’t mean they have a better handle on grief.” 

He sighs softly. “I want to kill what is left of Hydra.” 

“I think that’s normal.” A beat. “I mean if you really need….”She lets her voice trail off. Less assassin, more friend. She’s still working out the kinks. “I know Sam would have been glad you got out. Before you got together, he was so happy you got out of Hydra.” A smirk lifts the corner of her mouth and she looks heavenward thoughtfully. “You got this second chance.”

“I wouldn’t have it without him.” A shiver dances down his spine and his stomach twists itself in knots. “What now?”

“I can’t give you orders, Barnes. I can give you keys to my apartments if you need to.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “I can’t leave.” Because that would feel like abandoning Sam for the second time, and the world would stop turning before he made that mistake again. 

“Do you want me to stay?” 

Yes. No. He does not really know what the answer should be. So she says, “I’ll order dinner.”

“I can’t stay,” he whispers. 

“I know.” 

“Who are you staying for?” 

“All of you.” 

_-5 months later-_

Their small passenger plane is empty now and Steve wants to shove Bucky against the wall, grab him by the shoulders and shake. And Bucky almost lets him, but then he shoves right back because there isn’t enough space between them and he cannot stand Steve touching him. 

“You are way out of line,” Rogers grits out from between clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be taking Hydra agents in for intel, not putting a hole in every one you see.” 

“None of them talk,” Bucky replies, and his face is a mask of indifference. “He pulled a knife on Hill.”

“Which she is more than capable of handling.” A finger jabs toward the door. “Now she picking molars out of her hair. I let you jump back in because I thought that you needed it, because _you_ asked for it. Was I wrong?” He sounds desperate and looks at Bucky like he is really going to give him an answer. “You’re not the only one that lost Sam, Bucky. I know...I know it’s different for you and it’s your first loss. But—”

"Shut up, Steve,” Bucky whispers. His voice is dangerously quiet but there is a hint of a plea in the way he stares at his friend.

“We should have a ceremony for Sam.” Rogers gestures helplessly. “It’s the right thing to do. You know it is.” 

Barnes shakes his head. “We never found his body. You promised you’d bring him home.” Again, he shakes his head more vehemently this time. “I’m not burying an empty coffin.” 

“It’s time to accep—” He gets cut off by the ringing gunshot of Bucky’s Derringer. The sound echoes in their skulls and the ricochet passes close to his ear. Steve closes his eyes and sighs softly, heavily. “Bucky, please. It’s not something I want to do again but I will because he deserves it.” He hesitates. “I’m pulling you from all missions until you’re ready.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine?” Steve repeats incredulously. 

“I’ll do it alone. I know Hydra better than any of you.” 

“Dammit, Buck—”

“It’s final. Have a ceremony if you want to but I won’t be a part of it.” Bucky turns on his heels and exits without a backward glance. 

_-1 year-_

On the anniversary on Sam’s death, Bucky finds himself in a gas station bathroom scrubbing his hands vigorously in a sink that is far too small for a grown man. Blood tinged water splashes up on the sides of the rusted sink and he is trying to get god damn blood from underneath his fingernails. Guilt crawls up his spine, burrows between his shoulder blades and nestles itself in between heartbeats. Sam’s voice is telling him off in the back of his head, his own conscience using the one thing that would make him feel the absolute worst. 

Hands tremble as he reaches for the phone tucked in the inside pocket of the stolen leather jacket. His own has a bullet hole through the screen. But he’s desperate to hear a voice that will not reply ‘hail Hydra’. He holds the phone between shoulder and ear as he keeps scrubbing. Blood is stuck in the hinges of metal fingers. 

“Hello?” Natasha’s voice sounds easily on the other end. After a moment of silence she says, “You better not have gotten yourself hurt, James.” 

He opens his mouth to speak but the phone slips and lands at the bottom of the sink with its open drain. He backs out of the restroom with the water still running and drowning out her voice.

_-2 years-_

Hydra is getting harder to find alone. Barnes will not crack, will not ask for help. He did stop in New York for a day to stop by Sam’s family plot. He saw the memorial plaque. Crying is even harder now than it was before. It is hard to feel much of anything at all. He still keeps their house—Sam’s house, pays for it with the money he has been accumulated since the 20s and gets cleaners in every month. SHIELD cleaned out any sensitive documents before the metaphorical body had gone cold.

Steve is in the Tower with the rest of the Avenger. Bucky toys with the idea of going to see them then drops the thought. Too many people now set his teeth on edge and the thought of all eyes on him makes his pulse quicken. Besides, informal social interaction with the rest of the team was Sam’s forte. Bucky had always been the casual observer. He drives back down to DC then keeps going to Virginia, Alabama. He hits Florida and wonders if it would do any good to drive his car into the ocean. 

He doesn’t. 

He does get a room at an extended stay hotel. The bed creaks, the air conditioning rattles, his neighbor plays the television too loud. It gets closer to that day and Bucky finds his dreams riddled the sounds of gunshots and screams. He forgets what good night is. 

Three in the morning on Sam’s birthday and Bucky can’t stop thinking about him. His hands run through his hair and remembers when Sam used to do it too, when Sam kissed him in the early morning and said he liked it that length. He remembers when Sam kissed him soft and slow, when Sam made him promise not to cut it.  
Bucky buries his face in hands as he sits on the edge of the bed and listens to the sounds of cars pass by beneath his window. “You asshole.” Words get muffled by palms and anger starts to infect his bloodstream. He rises quickly and takes long strides toward the small duffle bag. Inside is a shaving kit and clippers. Organic hand runs over his jaw to feel the rapidly growing beard. He takes the kit to the bathroom and removes his shirt. Harsh yellow light glints off metal and draws Bucky’s eyes to jagged scarring. 

The air hums with the buzz of the clippers. Bucky puts on a high guard and watches long locks of hair begin to fill the sink. Low guard leaves a stubble on his chin. He inspects his work with an absentminded stare, fingers the gently curling hair at the nape of his neck with a muttered curse. 

_-3 years-_

Bucky does not think to contact Steve or Natasha much anymore. He spends free time going through SHIELD files, sniping still hidden Hydra agents from sky rises, whistles Beethoven’s seventh symphony softly as he meticulously cleans his Barret and Sig Sauer on motel tables. His hair has grown out some and he constantly rakes it out of his eyes until he thinks he should get a clip. He does not think about cutting it again. 

And it gets easier—not feeling. Bucky heads back to DC when the weather gets cold and he can wear jackets without odd stares. He stops at the front door and runs fleshly thumb over the jagged edge of the key before he goes in. The cleaners had just been the day before so everything is fresh and clean. It almost looks as if someone lives there. Bucky touches everything like he’s trying to get the hang of normality again. But when he gets to the kitchen, there is a bottle of vodka and a sticky note written in Russian.  
 _Happy birthday if you ever get this. We kept Sam’s phone on for you._

If there was anything Bucky could be grateful for, it would be that his knockoff serum still allowed him—if he tried hard enough—to get drunk. Cell phone in one hand and vodka in the other, Bucky climbs the steps to the bedroom agonizingly slow. He pauses in the doorway to take in the carefully made bed and he wonders if the sheets still smell the same. Probably not. He sits on the edge of the bed and dials the still familiar number. 

_Hi,_ Sam’s voice fills the air and open old wounds. There is a slight laugh in his voice that just rips Bucky to shreds. _You’ve reached Sam Wilson and James Buchanan Barnes—Sam, that’s not funny,_ Bucky calls in the backdrop. Present Bucky smiles. _Leave us a message and we’ll get back to you._

Tears prick the corners of the assassin’s eyes and he sets the bottle beside his feet as he lays back and hits redial. Knockoff serum be damned. It feels like he has waited a lifetime to hear his partner’s voice again and he’ll drag himself through hell before he does it any other way but painfully sober.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and the kudos. It means a lot to me, and I'll try to update every Friday/Saturday. ~JM

“Hi, Buck.” Steve stands on the front porch with his forearm on the doorframe and the other hand full of grocery bags. “Can I come in?” 

Bucky stares at him for a heavy second before he moves well out of the way for Steve to pass. He’s dressed in thin cotton pajama bottoms and a worn USAF shirt. He does not speak but silently moves to help Steve put groceries where they belong. And the super soldier talks about nothing, clearly dancing around the words he wants to say. Twice, they nearly brush against each other and Bucky recoils involuntarily. Steve pretends not to notice. A blush creeps up into the assassin’s cheeks and he’s so invested in wondering when he became uncomfortable again with touch that he does not notice Steve call his name. 

“Bucky,” Steve calls a little more sharply. When his friend looks up quickly, he smiles gently. “Your hair—you cut it?” 

Raking back still growing hair from his face, Bucky nods once. Knots catch between fingers. He should remember to brush those out. Everything is put away and he stands there unsure what to do next. In the end he gestures halfheartedly to the coffee pot. “Coffee?” he murmurs. 

Steve rubs palms on jeans and shrugs slightly. “Uh, yeah, I’d love some. Thanks.” 

Bucky goes to grab two mugs from the cabinet, hand bypassing the USAF cup. Two cups, coffee black. Still standing, he wonders what action comes next.

Steve takes it and watches the other stare at his cup absentmindedly. Hurt colors blue eyes, contradicts the small smirk. “I missed you, Bucky. It’s been awhile.” Steve sighs and set his cup down. Ceramic hits wood table top with a painful sort of finality. “We should talk.” 

“We don’t…” Bucky lets his voice trail off and wonders when finishing sentences had become tiresome. He tries to muster some life back into weary bones. “We don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Yeah, we do. Can we sit?” Steve already goes to take a seat and waits for Bucky to take the adjacent seat. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in over three years. If Natasha wasn’t able to keep an eye out….I play it over in my mind sometimes, you and Sam. I wonder what I could have done differently, why I didn’t.” He looks away and sniffs hard, clears his throat. “I’m sorry I couldn't do better.” 

“Hydra killed Sam, not us.” Believe that. Recite it like a mantra. 

Blue eyes give a worried stare. “Tell me you’re done going after them alone.” 

“No.” The mug rotates a half turn with a slight push with metal thumb. He rises slowly. “Thanks for the food.” He doesn’t tell him he only stays for a few hours before he has to go back to motel rooms. Too many memories press in on him here like collapsing space.They do not fit in a mind that cannot remember when he last had a good dream. 

“Wait. At least tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Captain Steve Rogers cannot raise the dead. No amount of goodness or determination is going to bring Samuel Thomas Wilson back. Bucky shakes his head. 

Steve stands as well, puts hands on kitchen table and presses his lips in a thin line. “I’m getting worried. Hydra gets more dangerous the closer we get to wiping them out. And you’re doing it alone. First Gdansk, Durban, Lisbon, Shiraz. Each one gets worse than the last. And we’re worried—all of us. Banner says you’re reverting.” 

Bucky furrows his brow in thought. “I was never in Lisbon.”

Plowing on with a one track mind, Steve presses on. “Regardless, I think you should stay here for a while, settle down. You don’t have to do this yourself.” 

Bucky sniffs and rakes his hair back with organic fingers. Shifting his gaze from coffee to his friend's stare, Bucky puts a small smile on his lips. It does not reach his eyes “I don’t want to fight again, Steve.”

“Then don’t. We’ll put in a movie or get dinner. Neither of us can cook worth a damn.” He grins but there’s desperation in his voice and they can both tell. After a moment the grin slips. “You’re my friend, Bucky, and I’m afraid I’m losing you all over again.”

Silence prevails. Quiet hum of the refrigerator, a bee knocking itself against kitchen window. Bucky has no idea what to say to that. He feels like he has already lost pieces of himself and does not know how to get them back. 

\--

Fleshly thumb goes to trace the rim of a cup of coffee gone cold with waiting. It’s still full and hardly touched. Bucky stares at it as if waiting for it to speak. Words don’t come and the minutes drag on to turn slowly into an hour. But the coffee shop is empty and the familiar staff leave him be. So he is mildly surprised when his space is invaded, hand instinctively going to carbon knife hidden in the jacket pocket. A cup of fresh coffee is set before him and he looks up to see a well known smirk, red hair pulled into a pony tail. 

“You look like hell,” Natasha says in Russian. 

The adjacent chair pushes out with a nudge of his foot. “I slept at home,” he answers as if that clarifies. Home. It is home. Ghosts do not live there. He does not still expect to see Sam around every corner he turns. He wishes his lies were as easy to believe.

Natasha takes a seat, props her chin on a hand and stares out the coffee shop window. “The coffee is average at best.” 

Gentle reminder to breath. “Sam thought the cinnamon rolls were the best.” A mask of complete neutrality gets carved on his face. 

“Every first week of winter you come back to this same hole in the wall and order the same thing.” Her eyes go to the uneaten pastry beside his hand. “It’s been almost four years.”

“I know exactly how long it’s been,” he replies a little more sharply than intended. A beat. He takes a breath. “What do you need?” 

Natasha leans back in her seat and turns to look at the baristas. They make two cups of coffee for themselves before she speaks. “I’m coming to you first because you deserve it. I found Sam.” 

Bucky does not know what is left to find. Four years is a long time, bones turn to dust, mix with rubble. He swallows hard. “He has a family plot in New York,” he answers roughly. As he rises to his feet, he nods absentmindedly. “Thank you for letting me know.” 

“James, sit,” she orders as her hands goes to the inside pocket of her jacket to pull out a Stark phone. Fingers move quickly and she slides the phone toward him. “Sam took a page from your book—captured by Hydra, memory wiped. He’s alive.”  
Bucky hesitates for several hearbeats before he looks at the phone. Even before he does, he looks at her almost pleadingly. “If you needed something just ask. But please don’t lie about this. Just this one thing—let me have this.” God, he had just gotten used to the feeling of an empty bed, not hearing Marvin Gaye on Saturday mornings, no more soft lips to kiss him awake. This—this is too much. This is the thing that will break him.  
Natasha’s eyes flick between his. She holds his stare and her gaze is soft. “He was my friend too. I know you’ve been running missions alone since you dropped off the grid, taking on Hydra by yourself. And it’s not like I can call anymore. I came to you as soon as I could.” 

It feels like an eternity before he drags his gaze to the phone. On it is a badly taken cell picture. Sheer metal wings, not unlike the ones Sam wore, aerial goggles, face mask much like the Winter Soldier’s. Whoever it was was perched on the side of a building with guns drawn. And Bucky wants to refute it right then and there, wants to call her a liar and tell her that this is not even a hint of proof. But his finger swipes across the screen almost without thought. Pictures, some bad quality and some decent, flash across the screen. There are only a handful and none of them show the flyer’s face. 

“I enhanced the quality on this one,” she says as she reaches across the table to flip to one of the better quality pictures. It’s a side view—mid-flight and so reminiscent of Sam that Bucky feels his chest clench. “I ran it against one of Sam’s old photographs. Well, you know what they say about ears—each one being unique.” 

Bucky concentrates on breathing because, for now, that is all he can do. Heartbeat quickens and blood roars in his ears. “He can’t….Sam is—was normal. There was over a ton of rubble…the explosion.”  
“Everyone thought you were dead, yet here we are.” A beat. “We never did find his body.”

“No.” It feels like he is on the edge of a precipice. A hand squeezes his heart. “We were sure…Steve was certain he was dead. Even I thought...” Inadvertently, his hand tightens it’s grip around the phone and the screen gives way to spiderweb cracks. “If this is Sam then that means we left him to die. We could have saved him and it was Hydra.” 

“Don't do that to yourself. It’s easy to look back and think you could have done differently. The only thing that matters is now.” 

It can’t help but feel as though he has been put through the wringer once again. “Where is he?”  
“I’m working on it. I’ll talk to Stark; it’s Sam so he’ll drop everything to help.” She pauses, eyes holding his stare. “You know I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t solid. It’s Sam.” 

“How did you find him?” Disbelief and something akin to fear grate vocal chords.

She shrugs slightly. “SHIELD monitors for new weapons and the wings happened to catch my eye. I just pulled on the thread.” She rises to her feet. “Come back to the Tower.”  
After a moment he shakes his head. “No, I need to go.” He puts his number into her phone and hands it back. “You’ll tell Steve?” 

She nods.

\--

It’s Tony that finds him two months and three days later. Two months and three days that Bucky feels like he's balanced on the edge of a knife. Jarvis intercepts every call, every video system. The AI analyses everything the Hydra ever touched and connects its relevancy to the present. 

“El Minya.” Tony’s voice is cut with static in Bucky’s ear--most likely stuffed away in his lab. He offers his help to which Bucky refuses has politely as he remembers how. There is a murderous rage in the undertones of the assassin’s voice and Tony does not press the issue. But before he hangs up, Stark tells him he’s sending them with a plane—fully stocked with the best he has. The old weapons manufacturer pokes through. 

Now, Natasha is standing beside him as she straps a pistol to her thigh, a knife to the other. Bucky has a replica of his Winter Soldier uniform though tougher material and upgraded weapons. 

“What’s the plan?” Natasha asks as she stands beside Bucky in the rear of the plane. “Not that I mind working nighttime missions on the fly."

“I need you to secure the control room. Once we get in there, concentration of Hydra will be around Sam and unless we break though fast enough, they’ll try to move him. If not, we'll have to fight him. If you secure their communication, it can slow them down long enough for me and Steve to break through to the vaults.” 

Steve sets the plane on autopilot and goes to join them. “How do you know he’ll be in the vaults?” 

“Because that’s where most people keep what is valuable.” He does not say that he knows Hydra vaults like a bad taste in his mouth he cannot get rid of. 

“Are you sure you can do this?” Steve asks quietly. 

Bucky opens the hatch. “We’re coming up on the drop.” 

They drop in on the roof, Tony’s plane hacks cameras and sets them on a loop. Natasha disappears from view while the super soldiers drop in together. Within seconds, before even Steve has chance to react, Bucky takes out Hydra agents as quickly and easily as cutting down blades of grass. And he moves forward with fury and determination only to find Steve’s wide palm presses against his chest.

“I need you to cool it,” Steve says quietly. “I can’t have you jeopardize this mission because you’re going in hotheaded.”

“Say it again,” Bucky says with a cold rage infecting his bloodstream. Sam is not a mission, Sam is everything. “Say it again when we find him. When you see him, you say it again and tell me hotheaded I’m being.” 

Tight-lipped, Steve lets him go ahead. And a few moments later, Natasha’s voice sounds in their ear to let them know the control room is secure. Between two super soldiers, they clear their way to the vaults quickly. Memorized maps, quick reflexes. They only ended up being stopped by solid steel vault doors.

“Another twenty seconds before they figure it out,” Natasha says.

They exchange glances, each grab a door and pull it open with sheer strength of will. When they get through, Bucky fires his weapon in quick succession to take out four of the seven Hydra agents. The shield takes out the rest. Just like he remembers, there are a team of three scientists. They press themselves against the wall, but there is no cold steel examination table, no wires, no IV lines. He shoots one and the other two press closer together. 

Elongating his stride, Bucky goes to grab one of the scientist’s by the lapels of his lab coat. Whirring gears of the metal arm fill the air. “Where is the asset?” He hates the way it rolls off his tongue. But these people do not care to know Sam Wilson, care that he hates the sound of fireworks and likes chasing down pancakes with black coffee. They don’t care that Sam was a person that lived and breathed and gave all of himself to everyone else. 

“Prep room,” the scientist stutters a reply. “He’s being prepped for relocation.” Eyes dart to his shot comrade.

“Where is it?” Bucky growls. The one he shot is not dead yet, cherry red foam bubbling up from between lips that move with words he can no longer say. And Steve is staring at him like he’s a disappointment. Too much noise, too much movement, too much stimulation. Metal hand shifts to hold the scientist by the throat. “Where is it?” The scientist grasps at Bucky’s hand as strangled noises force their way from crushed windpipe.

“For the love of God, Bucky, stop.” Steve cannot help but plead. 

Bucky takes his gun and shoots the first scientist with better precision. There is no sainthood for him, no parades of glory, no star-spangled banner and dancing girls. He knows war and guns and the feel of blood between his fingers. Mercy comes in the form of a Soviet bullet with no rifling. His grip eases off throat. “Where?” 

A choked reply: “It’s…a secondary vault. Accessible from here and the hangar.” 

“I’m on my way to the hangar now,” Natasha says in their ear.

He drops the scientist. “Open it.” 

When he shows no sign of moving and Bucky’s finger twitches on the trigger, Steve knocks him out and turns to the final researcher. “I suggest you open it.”

This one does as he is told. Knees trembling and hands shaking, he goes to his keyboard and types a code. The wall adjacent slides apart with a quiet hiss, and Bucky raises his weapon as Steve knocks the Hydra scientist out cold. He goes to stand beside Bucky and beyond the wall is only a narrow tunnel down, white-washed walls, flickering wall lights that give a harsh light. And Steve opens his mouth to speak but Bucky is not paying him any attention. Gun held to the side, Bucky is already heading down the hall. He stops short at a wide metal door. They can both hear muffled shouts coming from the other side, sounds of bodies slamming against the wall, metal screeching and grinding.

His heart is beating so fast and so hard against his ribcage it hurts. The warm air fills his lungs and makes them feel like hourglasses. The peeling paint, the flickering lights—Hydra is on its last leg, limping along and snapping its teeth like a wounded animal. Bucky can do that too. Hand on door, there are shouts, gunfire sounds like a heated conversation. Steve puts the shield between them and the door. They put their shoulders against it and it comes off its hinges like rice paper. 

Inside, Hydra agents left standing point weapons at their new asset. They divide their attention at the sound of the door coming off its hinges. Bucky pauses at the sight of Hydra’s new asset, Sam-not-Sam with sheer metal wings folded behind his back so large that the joint stands above his head and the tips nearly drag. His face is uncovered and Bucky goes weak at the knees. Hydra shoots and Steve grabs one of Bucky’s handguns to return fire. Sam-not-Sam does not reach for a weapon and oddly enough there are none on him. Some of Hydra have him by the arms and are trying to guide him through another set of doors. It sets the assassin’s teeth on edge, watching them put hands on Sam, their palms on his skin. And Sam is yielding to their touch, knows how to follow their orders and step right to avoid memory wipes and an electric current that feels like fire running through the skull. They put their hands inside of him and rearranged everything.

Sam’s feet falter and agents grab him by Kevlar straps. And Bucky can see the wings jutting up out of the material. Some vague thought starts to bubble up but gets shoved to the back of his mind as the super soldiers take out agents. He leaves Steve’s side and goes into a roll to gain distance. Sam and his handlers are getting through the doors to the hangar and there comes the sound of an engine warming. Shots fire. Steve shouts at Bucky to keep going and the assassin races through the door to see the Hydra agents laying Sam in what looks uncomfortably like a glass top coffin. They push it through cargo doors on a gurney as hangar opens up to the night sky, the deep purple backdrop. A flash of red in the corner of his eye. Natasha sprints and vaults herself, squeezes her small frame between closing doors. A second too late, Bucky gets metal fingers in the crack of the door and pries it open as bodies slam against the sides of the plane. Gears whir and hydraulics hiss. The door comes off its hinges with a reluctant groan. Natasha is on the floor, pinning the agent’s arms to his sides with a leg and thin wire wrapped around his neck until his legs stop their jerking movements. 

She jumps to her feet as Bucky rushes in. The air, for him, is too warm, space too crowded. He grabs the edges of his mask and rips it off. But he hesitates before taking long strides to the glass top coffin, realizes its filling with gas. Fear makes heartbeats stutter. 

“Sedative.” Natasha crouches on the other side and stopping him before he opens the case. Underneath the gurney Sam’s case rested on, were canisters of gas being pumped into the glass chamber. “They must be keeping him sedated until they get to the next location.” 

All air leaves Bucky’s lungs in a heavy breath. He feel like someone cut his strings and can’t help but sink to his knees to rest forehead against cool glass. A strong hand rests on his shoulder. “We got him back, Buck,” Steve is saying. But Bucky know how this goes, knows the book chapter and verse. They haven’t got Sam back. Not really.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am apparently very bad at time management

_“I can stay if you want me to.”_

_The air smells sterile and sharp. A shiver dances down Bucky’s spine and sweat starts to fill the lines of his palm. He swallows hard, torn between nodding and keeping up a façade of bravado. There are worse things to be afraid of—snipers, poison, a garrote in the middle of the night. Doctors' appointments should not be fear inspiring. Except they are, and Bucky does not want to be here sitting on cold steel examination tables, wondering if they are going to point rifles at him to force him into submission._

_Sam rests his hand gently on Bucky’s arm to get his attention. His hand is so warm on Bucky’s skin. “I can call Steve if you want.”_

_Tongue runs over lower lip. Bucky drags his gaze up from linoleum to look at Sam from lowered lashes. “I want you to stay.” Because he hasn’t know Sam for very long, but he feels safer with him close by. Breathing comes just a little easier and the space does not feel so confining._

_Sam smiles and nods, takes a seat beside Bucky until the doctor arrives._

On a twelve hour flight back to New York, Bucky does not move more than five feet from the sedative chamber. He sits with hands clasped, guns ready. There is an itch beneath the skin and he cannot help but feel as if Hydra agents are just waiting for them to land and take Sam away. Natasha and Steve leave him be. The plane runs on autopilot so they can take a breath. But all they do is stare—at the wall, out the window, at Sam. They watch him like he is a rare museum piece, the ancient artifact on display in a glass case. They are torn between wanting to wake him and knowing they should not. And when they land in the Stark hangar, there are five identical SHIELD armored vehicles waiting. Bucky squeezes in beside Sam. Steve and Natasha take another. 

Bucky moves to follow as they wheel Sam down the hall, Steve’s hand coming to rest on his shoulder and hold him back. The super soldier’s mouth moves with words, but Bucky hears a lot of rushing blood and too fast heartbeats.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “What did you say?” 

Steve looks slightly nervous, avoids eye contact, runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t…I mean…” He takes a breath. “I just think it’s a better idea you look over his file first. Tony and Banner are taking care of Sam. You know he’s in good hands.” 

“I’m not waiting around reading Hydra’s notes. I’m going to see Sam.” In truth, he’s afraid to look—at both. He isn’t fully prepared to know what they did to him yet. He never even read his own file. 

“No one’s saying you can’t but, for now, that’s not a good idea.”

And Bucky hates the way that his finger immediately twitches on the trigger of imagined gun, thankful they left weapons in their lockers. “I’m not leaving him alone.” Not again.

“He’s still sedated until it’s safer for all of us.” Steve takes a moment because clearly there is something more he wants to say. He squares shoulders like he’s bracing for impact. “I can’t let him see you first. I watched you shoot an unarmed man, Bucky. Honestly, I don’t think you’re what Sam needs right now.” 

“Go to hell,” Bucky breathes in disbelief. “What the hell do you know about what he needs? You’re an experiment gone right, a perfect success, the good guy everyone wanted. Not all of us can be great, Steve. Some of us have to clench our teeth and bite our tongues before we scream.” His chest hurts so badly, his heart stammering. And he feels like there are two sides of him, one holding hands over ears and cowering in the corner. The other wants to rip something apart and watch the patterns of blood spatter. Maybe he’s always felt this way and never knew it until now. He blinks and is mortified at the tears that spill over lashes, at the blood his tastes on his tongue. 

Steve steps forward, reaching for his friend. “Buck—”

Bucky shoves him back—metal hand against broad chest. Invaded space feels like knives scraping his skin. “Tell me what you know about what he needs. Not all of us had a choice. We couldn't all be picked up by good men with perfect formulas. We can’t all be America’s golden boy.” Hands clench so tight that knuckles pop. “Some of us only get to choose which gun we get to carry. But what do you know about that?” 

“I don’t know anything about that.” Steve deflates until he just looks tired. “I only know what I think is best for Sam and, right now, you’re not it, not the way you are.” A beat. “You said before that you didn’t want to fight, but for the past few years that’s all you’ve done.” 

“Maybe I should have done it sooner. If I had then maybe we could have sav—” Bucky gets cut off as a rush of guards and nurses run through the hall. Enhanced hearing lets him catch the tail end of their orders. Bucky sprints after them, getting to the forefront with Steve right on his heels. They skid to a halt at Sam’s door and try to gain some space in the crush of bodies trying to shove themselves in the small room. Bucky shoves his way through more roughly than Steve, gains ground faster. 

Sam is being overwhelmed by guards, weighted down by wings still attached. Small carbon knife is jumping between hands and barely cutting through uniforms as he gets pushed against the wall. His movements are defensive and halfhearted, and he’s being backed up against the wall. SHIELD guards manage to pin his arm against the wall and bear down with all their weight. Bucky can hear the stomach turning snap of bone, knife clatters on the floor. Sam does not even flinch. 

Tony and Bruce are beneath that pile of writhing bodies somewhere caught between yelling obscenities and snapping at them to clear the room. Bucky is focused on Sam, on lips pressed tight, on wide eyes. He slips through the throng with hand outstretched and suddenly he is touching Sam for the first time in almost four years. Then air. Guards filter into the space between them, push them further away from one another. Sam hits the wall with a near silent noise of pain. 

“Get off of him,” Banner snaps with the hard edge of anger in his voice. “Out. Everyone out.” 

At the sound of him getting angry, the guards leave nearly as fast as they came. The team watches Banner carefully, but the doctor is calm now out of sight of the small army, digging through the med cart for a pair of gloves and syringe. Tony’s standing at the wall opposite Sam, putting pressure on his forearm and blood staining his worn ACDC shirt. 

“It’s my fault,” Tony says with a particular type of disappointment Bucky has never heard before. “We were putting him on a mild sedative. He was fine until I touched his wings.”

“I don’t understand.” Steve’s brow furrows in confusion. 

“They’re attached,” Banner answers without looking up from his digging in the med cart. 

It hits Bucky like a car collision. The out of the blue impact on the passenger side. Memories of countless surgeries, waking on cold examination tables, gloved hands putting pressure on places that hurt too much. 

Banner continues, “Hydra surgically attached the wings to the nerves near his spinal column so they operate like…well, like bird wings I suppose.” He steps close to Sam with a syringe in hand and waits for him to look. “You’re probably hurting like hell. I can give you a shot of morphine to help, but the thing is, it’s best for you if it goes directly through the spine.” 

Sam backs up further if possible against the wall. And Bucky feels like his heart drops to the pit of his stomach. “Give us a second,” Bucky demands softly, eyes never leaving his onetime partner. 

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice holds a note of warning. But he catches Banner’s eye and they leave quietly.

Bucky grabs the hospital seat to drag it closer to exam table. He sits, takes a heavy breath, hesitates before he speaks. “What do you remember?” _Do you remember me?_ No answer. “Your handlers are dead. Hydra is dead.” Hands clasp together as if in prayer and Bucky stares at Sam hopefully. “Do you know who I am?” Sam nods once. Of course he knows the defective fist of Hydra, the Winter Soldier. “SHIELD doesn’t want assets. Whatever intel you have, you give of your own freewill. You’re wondering if Hydra can recover you or if you can escape. They won’t. If you want to leave then you can.” _But don’t. Don’t leave again. Please._ “They won’t come near you. I promise.” He resists the urge to tap his fist against chest. This Sam won’t know what it means. 

Sam takes a breath, stares at the floor, drags his gaze up to meet Bucky’s. “They said you would kill me.” Those are not the first words Bucky wants to hear. “If you had the chance, you would. You escaped and became unstable without Hydra’s control.” 

The super soldier nods once then moves to pick up the fallen knife, hands it to Sam. “If this makes you feel safer then take it, but I won’t hurt you.” It's a hollow gesture and they both know it. Sam is at a severe disadvantage. Bucky hesitates for a moment, bites his lip. “You went down during a mission and….Hydra wiped your memory so they could use you.” Try not to remember the taste of bitter plastic on the tongue, heart pounding at the feel of metal straps around arms. “They would have told you that you were doing it for freedom, that SHIELD wanted control. It’s a lie. I don’t care what SHIELD does now. All I want is for you to be safe.”

Seconds tick by. “I saw you in Gdansk first,” Sam says as he stares down at the knife in his palm. “You were in a motel room stitching up your side. They gave me the mission in Lisbon and I found you in Florida then DC.” He drags his stare up to look at Bucky. “You cut your hair.” Hands clench into fists. “I know you. I knew you and they took that.” Something is breaking, cracking on the surface.

Air rushes from Bucky’s lungs like he’s been hit. “That was you. You hit the Hydra base.” He resists the urge to reach out and touch Sam. But trying to stop the splintering of selves is like trying to move stars with breath. “Yeah, you knew me. Your name is Sam Wilson, you call Bucky, you declined becoming an Avenger so you could keep working at the VA, and you were the only person to keep me sane. And nothing I say will convince you that I’m telling you the truth, but I waited almost four years to tell you that I am sorry. I am. I’m sorry.” He says it in a breath, a plea, a prayer. 

Sam shifts slightly, sways on his feet and uses his wings to remain upright. Bucky instinctively goes to catch him then feels the knife blade rest against exposed neck. 

“I would have done it,” Bucky says gently. His mouth is just inches from Sam’s cheek. That is a distance he cannot cross yet. “When I was where you are now, I wouldn’t have hesitated. You are a good man, Sam. Whatever they did to you, they can’t change that.”

Sam is breathing hard and fast. “I don’t care what my name is. Just make it stop.” 

When something hurt that much, all it takes is step in the wrong direction to send a person over the edge. Bucky puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder gently as if he were made of rice paper. “If nothing else, trust Doctor Banner to give you the best medical care he can.”

Sam pauses for a moment before he nods once. Hesitantly, he hands the knife back to Bucky.

\--

A mass of scars, burns and surgical, litter Sam’s back. Bucky thinks he’s going to be sick. His stomach flips like a gold medal gymnast team. Wings jut up from between shoulder blades, fidget as Banner ghosts fingers along the length of his spine. He had fixed the arm first and it rested comfortably in a sling. 

“Does that hurt?” the doctor asks quietly. “Does it hurt here?” And Sam shakes his head, but his lips are pressed tight and nostrils flare. He sits on the edge of the exam table with hands clenching and unclenching so hard that knuckles pop. Bucky stands as close as he can without crowding his onetime partner. He flinches as the needles goes in, breathes a near silent sigh of relief as tension seems to bleed slightly from Sam’s shoulders. He sits with his focus on Bucky, staring through him. But he breathes easier even with all eyes on him. Steve begins to shift uncomfortably like he carefully turning over words in his mind.

“I told him,” Bucky mutters quickly before Steve can suffer under the weight of anxiety any longer.

Bruce pushes his glasses further up his nose. A slightly startled expression crosses his face. “What exactly did you tell him?” 

“Why don’t you ask Sam?” Bucky replies, voice hot with anger. “He’s sitting two feet from you.” 

The doctor takes off his glasses and taps them against the palm of his hand as he turns to give Sam undivided attention. “Sorry. I…I guess I have to readjust to you...not being dead.” 

Sam’s eyes flick between Bucky and Banner. “Dead?” 

Natasha steps forward arms crossed and posture full of hard lines, but her voice is soft as she asks, “What do you remember before Hydra?” 

Sam inhales. “Nothing.” 

“That’s expected,” Natasha answers. “Hydra would have erased any memory else you would have resisted.”

“Bucky’s came back. Yours will too, Sam,” Steve says with certainty. Muscles in his jaw tighten. 

Except he doesn’t know that it all came back fragmented and disjointed, memories snagged on unwillingness to remember. Memory became highly unreliable. But Bucky nods in agreement. 

Tony snorts loudly. In disgust. “I’m not doing this. I’m not lying to him,” Tony says abruptly. He misses Bucky’s wide-eyed stare of momentary panic. “Sam’s back from the dead, can’t remember a thing. It’s like Barnes 2.0. It’s all shades of _fucked up_.”

“Calm down, Tony,” Steve orders under his breath.

“No, I’m not going to calm down,” Tony snaps as he jabs a finger in Sam’s direction. “You guys are looking at him like we didn’t go through four years of thinking he was dead, like Barnes over here didn’t go off the deep end. He has wings surgically implanted. I have stitches.” A finger points with angry determination at the fresh wound. “Sam, our best friend, died. Until his memories start coming back—and we know not all of them will—this isn’t him. This is just…it’s the Winter Soldier all over again.” 

Banner pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales softly. “Christ, Tony, you couldn’t keep it together could you?” 

“Not all of us can stay as calm as you.” Tony is a hairline away from yelling, a word away from tearing up. “Don’t act like this doesn’t make you angry as hell.” 

“Do you want me to get angry?” Banner asks hotly. “Don’t you think this is hard enough as is?” 

Natasha steps between them with a finger on Tony’s chest to push him further from Bruce. “If you’re going to act like a child then you might want to think about removing yourself.”

“Natasha’s right,” Steve adds. “The best thing for Sam—”

“Quit acting like you know what’s best for Sam,” Stark cries in exasperation. “The only person who was any good with Barnes was Sam. As much as you want to ‘be the leader’, why don’t you consider removing yourself before you mess up _again_.”

Steve steps forward as if he is really going to throw a punch. But he can’t before Bruce and Natasha step between them. 

Bucky catches Sam’s stare out the corner of his eye. He knows the feeling of people talking around him, about him. Direct speech is reserved for mission reports and physical evaluations. Bucky opens the door and everyone goes silent as he gestures for Sam to follow him out. 

“Where are you going?” Steve and Tony demand simultaneously.

“Somewhere else,” Bucky answers. Tone is carefully constructed in false calm. 

They exit in the room, Sam a half step behind. Guards still litter the hall and Bucky tells them to fall back. Wings take up a good portion of space and Bucky realizes that he leans forward slightly to keep the tips from dragging. 

They’re not even halfway down the hall before Sam stops suddenly. As if uncertain whether to speaks or not, he hesitates. “I…I want to know…”

“Anything. I tell you anything you want to know.” 

_Yes, you make perfect pancakes._

_I lied when I said I didn’t drink out the carton._

_I loved that weird, stupid lamp in the living room._

_Steve covered for me, I punched the hole in the wall after a nightmare._

_I did everything I promised I wouldn’t when you died._

“I wasn’t blind. I knew what Hydra was doing. Everything always felt wrong. But they made it stop—the pain. It always hurts even when I think it doesn’t. And I want…I want to know what happens to me now. I was regularly wiped before I could remember anything. But I know you. I know I do.” He says it like he’s defying Bucky to do something about it. Because that’s all he can do—rage against the black hole of not knowing. “How did you do it?”

“Sam,” Bucky breathes the other’s name, takes a step and feels like he’s been gutted when Sam gives a barely perceptible flinch. But Bucky’s done it a thousand before, knows how to hide pain and fear behind a lifelike mask so he can easily recognize it in others. “Sam, it won’t all come at once. It’ll be messy and you’ll have to figure out which comes first. You won’t like all of them.” _Please don’t remember when we fought. Don’t remember that I tore off your wings and made you fall_. “But you helped me every step of the way.”

“Tell me,” Sam says. “Tell me how it happened. Tell me how I died.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of deaf or hard of hearing Clint. And so I'm going to have to give him bigger parts. Enjoy ~JM

Like some sort of manufactured angel, Sam spreads his wings slightly in the open space of the room like he is stretching. There is a small feeling of relief at the wide room, at too much space that fills with heavy silence. Bucky sits on the massive semi-circular couch watching the other as if he is the sun and breathes like he has not known anything but recycled air. He is trying to exhume the parts of himself that remember how to kiss gently, laugh easy, and breathe freely. There is a foundation there that Sam helped create. Bucky just has to learn how to rebuild, but it is so hard when he feels empty and hollow and wrapped in caution tape. And watching Sam standing by wide windows is like watching a split screen begin to overlap. It sets off a hum of anxiety. 

_Sam shoves his hands in his pockets as he leans against the window. The sun is going down over his shoulder and gives his outline an ethereal glow. He always knows where and how to stand to keep the light out of his eyes—a flyer’s habit. God he is impressive. The frame of him bathed in brilliant gold and blood reds. Bucky sits back on the couch and just watches. He cannot help the way his hands want to slip beneath that well-worn shirt and make Sam shiver._

_“Your own floor at Stark Tower.” Sam grins. “You’re practically an Avenger now. I’m happy for you, Bucky.”_

_The super soldier shrugs halfheartedly as he stares out at the New York skyline. “I don’t think I’ll take it.” He looks at Sam and smiles. It is so easy now—smiling like he never forgot how. “You didn’t take it.”_

_Sam shrugs in turn. “I like where I am. And I can help people in other ways.” He closes the distance between them and takes a seat so close to Bucky that no space is left between. “You could do a lot better here. Promise me you won’t let me stop you. If you want this then take it.”_

_Bucky stares straight ahead and takes a second before he taps a fist lightly against Sam’s chest. “I like where I am.”_

“I had dreams of crashing. The air would be too hot and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like something was crushing my chest.” Sam looks at Bucky like he is a painting to be studied. “What you said explains it.” He shifts weight from one foot to the other, puts a hand against the window. Bucky has never before been so envious of an inanimate object. Fingers tap a steady rhythm on glass.

Bucky leans forward to rest elbows on lap. “You’ll start to remember soon. You’ll—” He mutters a curse in Russian as his throat closes up and eyes well with tears. Face gets buries in hands and he feels his cheeks get wet. He tries to stop but it’s a losing battle. So he murmurs apologies in an endless succession, forces them through the lump in his throat. Every cry choked down for the last three years is fighting its way up.

“Bucky?” Sam’s voice is so hesitant. Tongue lingers over the super soldier’s name as if he is trying to get reacquainted with the sound of it. He says it again more firmly. “Bucky, I read your file but…I want to know more. I want to know about us. Why this happen to us.”

Roughly wiping away tear streaks, Bucky gives a hollow laugh. “How could it not be us? We were two regular people trying to keep up with the above average, the supers. And we had to—have to—start over. We all had to get broken so we can become something better. But us? It’s just bad luck Hydra got there first.” Bucky takes a stuttering inhale. “But it shouldn’t have happened to you. I promised to be there and I fell through.” Like standing on thin ice, he fell through and has been drowning ever since. Now Sam is back and it is like trying to fit together pieces of two separate puzzles. 

“We weren’t just friends, were we?” Sam asks quietly. 

“I’m your friend first. Always,” Bucky replies quickly. Fleshly hand roughly wipes away tear streaks and he swallows hard.“But we were more. You asked me to move in. I worked missions for SHIELD, you worked at the VA. We went running by the Lincoln memorial almost every morning. And…I accidently broke your elbow after a flashback. You still let me stay the night.” 

There are several moments of silence in which Bucky begins to wonder if Sam is having an internal breakdown. “It used to click,” Sam says finally. “My elbow, it used to click." Elbow moves like it is trying to remember the feeling. "I broke it on a mission in Nepal and it stopped clicking.” 

At the sound of elevator doors opening with a resounding ring, Bucky looks over his shoulder. He stands quickly as Clint takes long strides across the room. Tony follows close behind. The bowman meets his stare for a brief second, but keeps the majority of his focus on Sam. He stops within arm’s reach, feet slightly apart as if bracing himself, and folds his arms loosely. 

“God damn,” Clint breathes. “It’s good to see you again, Sam.” He holds out his hand and Sam stares at it before he cautiously goes to shake it. Clint gives a mischievous smirk like Sam had never left, like there was no interruption in their comradery. Barton turns to Bucky but does not shake his hand. He knows that simple forms of physical contact is uncomfortable now for him. And Bucky realizes he has lost so much of what he had worked so hard on. His discomfort is written in his stance. Guilt creeps in under Sam’s stare. 

“It’s good to see you too, Barnes.”

Bucky tries to not look guilty. “Same. I heard about the accident. I’m sorry.” 

Barton shrugs slightly. “Stark gave me some aids so I still have about seventy percent hearing. It’s not so bad.” He looks at Sam. “Besides, got to get comfortable in your own skin.”

Wings fidget and Sam’s brow furrows in thought. “I read your file, but I don’t remember.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Clint leans closer and murmurs, “But if you start to remember Madrid, try and keep that one to yourself. I still didn’t tell Tasha.”

Personally, Bucky doesn’t know what went on in Madrid, but he is vaguely aware that it involved three explosives, a stolen jet, and carnival. 

Sam stares at Tony for a moment before he extends his hand. “I’m sorry about the stitches.” 

“Sorry about the meltdown.” Tony shakes his hand firmly. “Besides, I’ve had worse. Impressive wingspan, by the way.” He makes his way to the bar, smirks from behind the  
counter. “Open ‘em up, we have the space.” 

Bucky had been quietly making his way toward the window, giving himself much needed space from the others. He catches Sam’s face almost imperceptibly harden into a neutral mask, slipping back into the mentality where he can only follow orders. Slowly, he begins to unfurl his wings, stops short as Bucky puts a hand on his arm. 

“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers. 

Sam presses his lips in a thin line. “I know.” His eyes go to partially unfurled, sheer metal wing. “But…I trust you. I would have been dead without you.” 

He spreads wings wide, braces himself against the shift of weight until he resembles classic paintings of archangels. And Bucky is hovering on the edge of becoming Belisarius, silently begging Sam to remember so he can press up close and kiss like they used to. A paltry reflection of himself begging for scraps. Because there is a growing emptiness in his chest, a weight bearing down on his sternum. And he is not sure if he can stand anyone touching him but Sam. 

Clint gives a low whistle. Tony pours an extra finger of Scotch. 

“I’ve been in cryo for the past eight months,” Sam says so quietly only Bucky can hear. “I failed every one of my missions since Lisbon. I wasn’t Hydra’s asset, just a liability. They were going to deactivate me.” 

Bucky can’t wait for fragmented memories. He presses himself against Sam, bodies flush, his arms around the other’s waist. And Sam is so much thinner than Bucky remembers, takes up less space, but he is incredibly warm. His bare skin is like August heat beneath Bucky’s fleshly palm, and the super soldier buries his nose in the gentle curve of Sam’s neck to breath deep. Smells like hospital rooms, like cold stale air of the cryo chamber. A quiet sob gets caught behind clenched teeth. A shiver of ingrained panic dances down the spine.

Tentatively, Sam rests his hand on Bucky’s organic shoulder and he shifts slightly, massive wings going to encircle them. Clint and Tony have already turned away, but the added privacy lets Bucky feel something like the better self he used to be. 

Sam shifts, uncomfortable with the weight against broken arm. But when Bucky moves away with a muttered curse and apology, Sam’s hand lingers.

\--

Bucky does not tell him that he kept their house. Sam does not ask. They take a moment to gather themselves before agents take him into a small room with white walls and a mediocre view on Tony’s office floor. Maria leads Sam in, smiles gently and orders Bucky to wait outside. There is an overwhelming anxiety that come with letting his partner out of his sight, but Sam goes easily and Bucky respects and trusts Hill well enough. He leans back, rests his head against the wall. Quiet footsteps sound on linoleum floors. 

“Bucky,” Steve says softly with a hint of hesitation. “I’m sorry, Buck. You know better than any of us what Sam is going through. I don’t want to mess this up, not like I did with you.” 

The assassin closes his eyes and takes a breath. “You’re always trying to do your best, Steve. It’s crushing when there’s too much going on in your head.” He rakes hair back roughly. “But you were right. I’m not good for him.” He does not know how to exorcise the manufactured parts that are colored in shades of obedience or memory wipes. He does not know how to pull out the shining parts of Sam that he so well remembers.

“Tony was right. I don’t know everything. I thought I knew wh—”

He gets cut off by the sharp report of a single gunshot, the musical tinkle of glass, a body hitting the wall hard. Bucky gets to the door first. The door handle breaks under too fast movements and unrestrained strength. And Sam is kicking out jagged window edges while Maria is picking herself up off the floor. Her skirt is hiked up, caught in the thigh holster where there should have been her standard Glock. But the gun is in Sam’s hand and he is falling out the window like he is going in for a swan dive. Bucky sprints for him and makes it within an inch of the window before a strong arm locks around his waist. Bucky leans out as far as he can, wind whipping his hair around. He watches Sam go into a barrel roll, spread his wings to their full potential and bank sharply until he disappears around the building. And Bucky is crying out his name in a rough voice like three little letters are wrapped in barbed wire and scraping the inside of his throat.

Hill is letting loose a string of eloquently put together curses as she radios SHIELD to keep eyes on Wilson. She pushes her hair back with heavy sigh, nods when Steve asks if she is alright. 

“I’m not hurt. I got knocked against the wall with one of those giant wings.” She fixes her skirt and screws her mouth up in a frown. “I’m sorry, Barnes. I don’t know what the hell I said but he spooked. A wing came out and I drew my weapon. Reflexes.”

“That…asshole,” Bucky breathes. “That complete, devious, Hydra-made asshole.”

Steve’s brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t follow.”

“The med wing—there are hardly any windows there, none big enough for him to get through,” Bucky answers. “When I took him to a different room, he tapped his fingers against the window. He was testing it to make sure they weren’t bulletproof. I gave him his out.” 

Maria shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Shattered glass crunches beneath her feet. “Will he go back to Hydra?”

“No,” Bucky replies. “But there’s nowhere for him to hide, not with enhancements like those. Unless he finds a third party willing to use his skills, it’s us or Hydra.” 

Steve’s phone interrupts, blaring the national anthem in pure rock fashion. He pulls it out his pocket, puts it on speakerphone and answers, “Dammit, Tony, Sam—”

“I’m on it,” Tony cuts him off just as they see him shoot out from around the corner, bright reds and golds a blur. “Impressive flight pattern. I didn’t think he’d be capable of independent flight. Jarvis are you recording this?” 

Bucky grabs Steve’s phone out of his hand. “Don’t force him down.” 

“He has Hill’s gun,” Steve adds.

“I’m sure I would think to add ‘bulletproof’ to my suits’ features,” Tony replies deadpan. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll ask nicely.” 

Steve catches his phone as Bucky tosses it back, follows as he sprints for the elevator, squeezes inside behind his friend as the doors close. They make it to Tony’s garage and Bucky slips into the driver’s seat, closes the door and locks it before Steve can get inside. And they both know that he can pull the door off its hinges if he was so inclined. Bucky hopes he is not so inclined. 

“Not this time, Steve.” Every car has their keys resting in the cup holder. Bucky turns on the car, puts it in drive. His foot stays on the brake “He won’t stay here. And I can’t do this with you too.” Here is a lot of unknown space that sings too loud with unknown memories. It is overwhelming white noise buzzing inside the skull, a constant nagging sensation pulling at the back of the mind. It’s an annoyance that crawls beneath the skin. And Bucky has spent years forgetting how to negotiate his space with others, but knows how it feels to collapse under the weight of too many expectations. Bucky does not expect anything more than a series of good days and bad days, of watching Sam try to stitch together memories like Frankenstein while they both hope for the best. Bucky expects to feel like hell and still keep going. 

Steve gives a heavy sigh and steps back. “Fine. If you don't come back, stay in touch this time.” 

Bucky looks away unsure if he wants to tether himself to the obligation of constant communication. But he nods because they deserve it, because he remembers that it is the right thing to do. “I don’t even know if he’ll come.” He looks up and meets Steve’s stare. “I’ll try and bring him back.” 

The large SUV speeds off in Sam and Tony’s general direction, weaves between traffic to blaring horns and squealing tires. Bucky calls Tony phone and he picks up on the first ring. “Are you still in the air?” Bucky demands.

“Your love bird isn’t exactly keen on coming down,” Tony answers. 

“Steer him in my direction.” 

Tony locks on to the super soldier’s phone coordinates and within minutes, Bucky can see two silhouettes in the sky. He turns onto an empty residential street, stops at the dead end and gets out. Sam can't outfly the suit so he will have no other option but to land. 

Within minutes, Sam plummets toward him at a speed that makes Bucky’s stomach do a series of gold medal flips. Wings spread wide at the last possible second and he hits the ground mere feet from where the super soldier is standing. Bucky puts up a hand against the powerful gust of wind and the debris it kicks up. Wingspan is even more impressive in the sunlight. But Bucky’s only half focused on sheer metal as he stares down the barrel of Hill’s Glock. So this is what it feels like to be on the other end of the gun. Bucky waves Tony back as he starts to land. The engineer touches down on top of the adjacent building, ready to step in if he has to. 

“No more secure facilities,” Sam demands vehemently. His entire body is trembling. “No more doctors touching my wings. No more surgeries. No more people I don’t know telling me things I should know.”

“Does that include me?” Bucky leans back on the hood of the car like his legs can’t support his weight alone. “What do you want?”

Sam lowers the gun hesitantly. “I don't know. But I don't want to be broken.” 

“It’ll get better. Just focus on being _here_. Stay in the now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read all of your awesome, amazing, wonderful comments and it's just perfection. I love every comment you take the time to write and I probably would have given up if I didn't know you guys liked this fic so much. And thank you all so much for being patient with my updates.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler chapter? I'm working on something big for this

Bucky reluctantly places a set of keys on the counter of a kitchen he is unfamiliar with. Discomfort crawls beneath the skin as he tries to think of what words sounds best.

“It’s a secure building, mainly SHIELD personnel,” he says. “Steve has the room on your left. I’m on your right.” He looks around the small apartment, tries not to commit the image of Sam back in his bulletproof suit to memory; they don’t have anything else to fit around the wings. So instead he stares at the dark wood floors, the fully stocked bookshelf, color blocking printings. A normal person is supposed to inhabit this space not a brainwashed assassin with difficulty wearing shirts. And from the corner of his eye he can see Sam scanning the area to map out the best defensive positions and where best to hide weapons.

“You’re not staying?” Sam asks quietly. 

“No. If you want me to, I can stay,” he adds in quick reassurance—an afterthought. There is no answer and the super soldier takes a phone from trouser pocket. “This is yours.”

Sam nods once like he’s receiving orders. A second of pause and he takes a breath. “Thank you.” He catches Bucky’s wavering stare. “I owe you—all of you.” 

Bucky feels like he is fracturing--a mass of splintered bone and torn muscle. He swallows hard. “You don’t. You don’t owe us a thing, Sam.” This does not scratch the surface. There are a thousand more things Bucky wishes he could do. He rakes his hair back roughly. “You…you’re probably hungry. They stock the fridge. There’s delivery.”

“It sounds strange hearing what’s supposed to be my name.” A beat and then Sam murmurs something in French that Bucky doesn't catch. “What now?” 

Bucky blinks, gaze drops under Sam’s stare. “Banner is working on something to manage your pain. Stark is sending a tailor in the morning.” 

Wings shift under Bucky’s stare and Sam’s eyes drift to the metal hidden beneath long sleeves of the thin under armor shirt. “How did you get yours?”

Metal fingers curl into a loose fist. “I fell from a train. Hydra scientists found me, put this on, trained me, made me think…” He sniffs, forces the corner of his mouth in to a hollow smirk. “You know what happens.” 

“Hydra can’t have two escaped assets.” Sam leans against the counter. “I trust you but you’re only at your best when on the offensive, and Hydra knows everyone of your weaknesses.” 

Bucky’s stares at Sam for a moment. “You don’t know, do you? Every person in this building is here to protect you. They all know you.” 

“Why?” Sam looks slightly confused like he does not understand that people don't always equate to pain. Bucky understands. Reaching for memories is like brushing fingertips along the edges of a vague outline. “Would they do it for you?”

Agents walk by Bucky with hands on holstered guns, fists clench tight, and greetings of 'Sergeant Barnes’ come in hollow tones from between clenched teeth. It had been years since he was the same man who killed their friends, their coworkers, their significant others. But people do not forget that indescribable pain of loss and the empty space it leaves. So no—no field agent would fight half as hard for him. Bucky does not blame them. Blessedly, there comes a gentle knock at the door before Bucky can reply and Steve’s voice calls from the other side. Bucky exchanges a brief glance with his counterpart before he answers. 

Steve stands in the doorway with hands on hips and dressed more comfortably in jeans and shirt. He looks over Bucky's shoulder to wave at Sam. “I know you won’t want to talk, but everyone’s meeting in my rooms. Natasha…we want you to go through Sam’s file with us. We think you should have a say in his recovery.” 

Bucky nearly laughs. A dark humorless laugh full of disbelief. As if he had any say in Sam’s recovery, like there was a script that only he could read. But Bucky does not know how to navigate this terrain. He looks back at Sam to see him already going through his phone. Bucky gives a half nod before following Steve to his room. 

All of the Avengers have found their spaces. Tony is standing by the window as he searches through his phone at a furious pace. Banner leans against the window sill as he looks over his friend’s shoulder, periodically shaking his head and murmuring something in Tony’s ear. Natasha and Clint sit close together on the plush, dark blue couch, his leg on her lap as he slouches back against the cushions. His stare is on her lips as she speaks quietly, answering with quick finger movements in lieu of speech. They all slowly look up as Steve and Bucky enter. Silence falls heavy and fills the space, crushes even the tiniest noise. Bucky’s hand goes behind his back, fingertips touch the door. 

Natasha reaches over to pick up a thick manila folder from the coffee table. “Sharon’s en route from SHIELD.” Fingers flick through paper and she hands a packet to Bruce and Tony.

“They kept some modified painkillers on hand from Steve’s surgery,” Banner finishes. “I glanced over the medical file so it should work in small doses. But Hydra would have synthesized a more correct drug for him.” 

Stomach turns at the memory of bullets hitting their mark, fist leaving flowering bruises, pulling Steve’s body from the Potomac. Then there are hospitals rooms under libraries, office buildings, bank vaults. Doctor sticking him with needles until he feels like a voodoo doll. Bucky nods to show he had heard.

Clint taps a finger against the folder before Natasha can get started. “Shouldn’t Sam be here too? This is all about him.” 

“He’s busy going through SHIELD’s database,” Tony answers as he waves his phone. “I’ve got Jarvis monitoring his phone. If he goes looking through things he shouldn’t, it redirects to a random movie.” 

They all know that he is looking for himself. Maybe he’s looking for the rest of them to and trying to find out where he used to fit in this odd assortment of people, wondering what his function was. 

Natasha glances through the remaining pages. “I don’t know how many languages you two speak, but nearly every other page is different. French. Portuguese. Arabic. He’s landed in nearly every facility in the world.”

Banner flicks through his own assortment of pages. “My French isn’t the greatest, but it doesn’t say why they graphed wings on. I mean, logically speaking it’s not the best options in stealth. If Hydra used Sam the same way they did Barnes then an enormous wingspan isn’t practical.”

“It’s useful for aerial assassinations,” Natasha replies. “Say your target is in a secure building a fifty stories up. Perfect advantage.”

“And yet another reminder to be terribly amazed and amazingly terrified of you,” Tony says as he stares at the assassin warily.

Natasha shrugs casually. Tony’s stalling, buying time so he doesn’t have to hear all the atrocities done to his friend. Because after his own kidnapping and everything he has seen, Stark doesn’t need to add to his nightmares. But he stays because they’re all in this together, because Sam is his friend too and he’s not going to let him down when he needs them most. There is a moment of silence for them to mentally prepare before she continues. 

“The engines of his suit were knocked out of alignment during flight resulting in third degree burns to the upper back and…fusion of the frame and skin.” She hesitates before she keeps reading. “The fourteen hour surgery was unsuccessful in separating the two and ‘the subject’ would be found paralyzed upon removal.” Skip over a lot of words that spell out a lot of hurt. “Fractured vertebrae, collarbone, ribs—a list of assassinations, missions, dates and times of all his memory wipes and time in cryo.” She tosses the file to Clint like she doesn’t want to be the one to read the rest. “Sam has just about as much hardware in his as a Stark suit.”

Bucky flexes the fingers of his metal hand as Tony speaks. “Banner and I can get a med team together,” the engineer says quietly. “I can have them flown in—”

“No,” Bucky cuts in sharply. “You try and take away his wings now and he won’t trust you.” 

“So your best idea is to just leave them?” Tony asks incredulously. 

Clint holds up a hand. “You know better than any of us what he’s going through. What’s your suggestion?”

“Wait,” Bucky answers. “Manage the pain. He has to get use to the idea that we won’t hurt him first.”

Banner shifts and says, “Tony said that Sam trusts you. Why not talk to him? If we can get the wings off then it alleviates so much pain.” 

“That’s if you don’t paralyze him,” Bucky snaps, voice a step away from yelling. After a second, he takes a calming breath. “If I asked him to he would do it. But he wouldn’t want to. If you sedate him, it’ll just remind him of going into the cryo-chamber.”

“That’s all it is?” Clint looks up from where he had been looking through the last few pages of notes. “He told you, didn’t he?” 

Lips press in a thin line. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

Steve folds his arms tightly and looks for all the world like a disapproving parent. “What didn’t you think was relevant?” 

“Hydra was going to kill Sam,” Clint answers. “Apparently, the tech is still valuable. They were going to remove the wings and let him die on the table.”

“And he knows this?” Tony demands. “You didn’t think that was relevant as we were suggesting _surgically removing his wings_. What else don’t you think is relevant? What else are you keeping from us?” Banner’s got a hand on his chest, but Tony’s fired up again. Anger is reaching a boiling point. “Forget it, Barnes. You’ve been gallivanting around the last few years playing the Lone Ranger and you forgot how to work on a team. You and Sam weren’t a goddamn tea set. You were supposed to be our friend too.” 

Bucky feels the crushing weight of guilt settling on his shoulders. And maybe Tony is right, but Bucky does not know how to react without Sam as his buffer, as his gauge. He feels so heavy. He feels as weak as Steve used to be, feels like he’s the asthmatic, the skinny, small and sickly thing barely holding on. The lines of his fleshly palm are filling with nervousness that he wipes discreetly on combat trousers. He tugs down the long sleeve of his shirt and feels Steve’s hand rest on organic shoulder. 

“We’re a team, Buck,” Rogers says. “We have to pull together especially on this.” 

A team? This dysfunctional band of misfits, this group of people that could not come together until death calls for it. It was Sam, living Sam that made them stay together. Bucky squares his shoulders, fixes the old smirk on his lips like rearranging furniture. “You’re right, Steve.” He gives a little blink, a soft exhale. He’s the old Bucky again and from the corner of his eye he can see Natasha giving him a disappointed look. It does not matter. He wants to get back to Sam. That hum of anxiety is turning into a scream and all eyes on him makes skin feel like it’s sloughing off. Barnes turns and grips the doorknob with organic hand. “This is for Sam and I should have told you. It won’t happen again.” Before Steve can try and pull him back with gentle words, Bucky slips out the door. Briefly, he wonders if he should cut and run. This is all too much and he’s not the right fit for this situation. But he’s not even fully stopped before his knuckles rap on Sam’s door. 

Two seconds. Five. Ten. Bucky’s heel bounces a couple times when there is no answer. A creak on the staircase makes him look over sharply and he can see Aaron, one of SHIELD's techs, heading up. His shirt is ringed in sweat, small towel draped over one shoulder. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” he says with a slight tilt of his head and a nervous quiver in his voice. He’s studying him and trying to gauge whether he is closer now to Winter Soldier or Bucky Barnes. “If you’re looking for Sam, I just passed him. He’s on his way down to the gym.”

“How was he?” Bucky’s asking the question and he’s already halfway down the stairs. Polite and idle conversations do not take priority. 

“Better from what Ms. Hill told me.” He leans over the railing to talk to him. “Sharon and a medic gave him a low dose of Steve’s pain meds.” 

Bucky races down the steps, slows when he sees agents coming so he doesn’t frighten them. But their hands still clench into fists, fingers rests on gun triggers if they carry. Bucky averts his eyes in a hollow gesture of submission. 

Sam is halfway up the salmon ladder, has wings pressed together like clasped hands and does not bother to look over when Bucky stands mere feet from him. The Kevlar vest is gone and he is stripped bare again from the waist up. Scars are on display for anyone to see. And somehow knowing how they got there makes it worse. 

“You finished going through my file?” Sam does not even sound winded. Beads of sweat begin to form between his shoulder blades. “Was it the same as yours?” He pauses to look down before he lets go of the bar, wings spread to slow his descent. “No, yours was longer.” 

“It’s not a competition,” Bucky whispers. There is a significant lack of determination or life left in his voice when Sam looks at him as if he is still a stranger. 

“I didn’t say it was.” Sam’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches every one of the other’s movement. “You never did show me yours.”

Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to the other, grabs the back of his shirt and slips it over his head. And plenty of people have seen the scarred space between flesh and metal—Hydra scientists and Sam. It is unpleasant, discomforting, stomach churning and terrifying to be so exposed. As if his muscles remember, Bucky moves his arm the way the scientists had made him do during every physical exam. Extend the arm. Bring it in. Out again. Rotate. Move fingers slowly and one at a time. 

Sam lifts his hand hesitantly but does not touch. “It doesn’t hurt at all?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “Hydra experimented on me before I fell. It healed just the way they wanted it to.” 

“Would you get it removed?” He asks as if he’s taking about a growth, as if Bucky can pop it off still be the same. 

“I used to want it off. I hated it.” All the weapons he’s held with it, the scars left on others, the kill numbers it helped rack up like achievement points. It makes Bucky sick.

Sam ghosts his fingertips over the metal forearm. “And now?” 

_Sam ghosts his fingertips over the metal forearm, lips pressing a soft kiss on the nape of his partner’s neck. “If you want them to take it off then do it.”_

_“You think I shouldn’t.” Bucky drums mechanical fingers on the countertop, traces the lettering of the USAF mug. If he flicked a finger, he could shatter it._

_“I think you could do a lot of good with it.” Sam wraps an arm around Bucky's waist. "Whatever makes you comfortable."_

"Now, I learned to live with it. It's helpful." 

Sam breathes in, breathes out. "I want to keep my wings...for now." 

"You heard?" 

"I specialize in gathering intel." He meets Bucky's stare. "These are all I have." 

Bucky nods. "Then keep them. Whatever makes you comfortable."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally SteveSam'd

For three weeks, Bucky feels like a performance artist--the perpetual tightrope walker. He is balancing the razor wire separating Bucky Barnes from the Winter Soldier. And maybe four days without sleep is not helping, but it’s two in the morning and he knows sleep will not come. He keeps turning over the image of Sam in his head. 

Sam littered with scars. Sam in hospital rooms. Countless injections to manage intolerable pain while his body’s resistance builds faster than Banner can synthesize a better cocktails of drugs. Mental and physical evaluations every day. Every hour is someone somewhere putting hands on him. 

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales through the nose, exhale through the mouth. His mind switches to something easier to swallow: combat strategies. Muscles relax somewhat until he begins to replay assassinations like a broken record and he gets sick. 

Straining, the super soldier listens for noise coming from the next room and catches the sound of footsteps. Without bothering to throw on a shirt, Bucky pads out into the hallway on bare feet. Dim hallway lights offers little illumination but the dark does not feel so oppressive, is not quite so glaring. Measured steps and quiet footfalls carry him to Sam’s door. Mechanical hand stops short of knocking, and he takes a breath before he keeps walking down the hall. Two quick and quiet knocks on apartment door. Bucky waits a solid five seconds before deciding that this was a terrible idea and making his way back to his rooms. Not even halfway down the hall and the door creaks open. 

Bucky stops and looks back with a hint of guilt. “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve says with a tired smile. His hair is mussed with sleep and he runs a hand through it calm the wild strands. “Come inside?” 

This night is pockmarked with hesitation. Inhale slowly. Nod. Bucky pads into Steve’s room and tries to ignore the fight or flight sensation that rises at the sound of the door clicking closed behind. 

“Want to talk about it?”

The sound of whirring gears breaks the silence. Bucky stares down at the floor for a moment before his eyes flick back up to watch Steve set a kettle on the stove. The seconds tick by and Steve leans against the kitchen island to watch his friend. Bucky does not know how to tell him that he’s sick to his stomach, that every time he sees Sam it is like a slap in the face, a painful reminder of his biggest failure. He does not know how to tell Steve that this Sam stares at him like familiarizing himself with an object until Bucky feels like he’s slipped into peripheral vision. But he only says, “I couldn’t sleep.” 

Steve smiles but disappointment fills the lines of his face. “You know you can still talk to me about anything, Buck.” 

Barnes takes a seat on the bar stool so he sits opposite his friend. “He should have remembered something by now. Anything. Hydra should have more activity and they’ve been silent. I don’t like any of this.” 

“Hydra doesn’t exist anymore.” Quiet clink of ceramics as Steve reaches for mugs. “It’s just a small, scattered group of people that we get closer to ending every day.”

But Steve knows that Hydra has a way of slipping between the cracks and festering out of sight. Steve should know better. 

Rogers sets a mug down firmly before his friend. “You can’t keep obsessing over all the bad. Let me handle whatever comes. Focus on Sam, Bucky. We’re going to get through this just like we did with you.” 

This isn’t a problem with a cookie cutter solution—one size fits all. Bucky does not say a word but waits for Steve to pour the hot water, squeeze of lemon. It’s just like when they were younger living in the small apartment with the thin mattress and couch cushions on the floor. Fleshly hand rests on the cup and the warmth seeps in to the muscle and bone. Mechanical hand rests out of sight on his lap. Steve takes a seat beside his friend, mug enclosed in large palms, fingers interlaced. Bucky remembers those hands picking him up off Hydra’s exam table as his lungs try and drown him like there's an ocean inside him. But that was the 40s when Bucky was weaker than he is now. Steve can’t pick him up this time. 

At what sounds like glass shattering, Bucky and Steve split. Closer to the door, Bucky shoots out like a bullet from the gun while Steve takes the window route, the fire escape. Standard flanking procedure. 

Sam is steadfast trying to get through the window as Clint tries to block his way and Steve is climbing through. And though he could have gotten passed him, Sam seems an unwilling participant in this press of bodies. He keeps a good amount of space between them.

Barton catches Bucky’s eye. “He was fine up until a second ago. I don’t know what set him off.” 

Steve does not reach for Sam but gets close enough to make himself an optional support. But Sam is already moving toward him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him into a rough kiss. Bucky feels like the bystander of a car crash, a heel kick to the chest and no way to do anything about it. The breath rushes from his lungs and it feels like inhaling water. But their rough press of lips does not last more than a few seconds before Sam turns his head away. 

Steve lays his hands gently on the other’s forearms as the corner of his mouth pulls up in a soft smirk. “I was kind of hoping that wouldn’t be the first thing you remembered.”

“So that was a memory,” Sam murmurs. Confusion, fear, disappointment—all of these emotions are filtering into the lines of his face, the set of his shoulders. He backs away from Steve and nearly makes for the door. 

“Sam,” Steve calls softly. “Sam, wait.” He turns to the assassin with a hand out in hurried placation. “Bucky, it’s not—let me explain.” 

Sam glares at Bucky. “What are we?” He turns his glare to Steve. “What are we? This entire time I’ve studied Sam Wilson and he’s supposed to be his partner, his boyfriend, his lover.” A finger jabs in Bucky’s direction. “Then I get a memory of you and it’s—someone tell me what the hell is happening.” 

Bucky can only stare with a sort of shell shocked hopelessness. Of course Steve had known Sam longer than he had, but neither of them had given any hint that they had been anything more than friends. Maybe Bucky just wanted to be selfish, wanted to think that there had never been anyone else. And why not Steve? Good old American apple pie Steve Rogers with his winning smile and straightforward charm. 

Clint shuffles his way to the door as he runs a hand nervously on paint-stained sweatpants. “Listen, this is between you guys.” He looks at Sam and signs quickly. And Bucky’s begins to think that it’s time to add to his list of languages. 

Sam nods once and softens somewhat before he signs thank you. Clint slips out the door and jams it closed on fractured hinges. Another broken entryway to add to Bucky’s tally. And then all eyes are on Steve. 

The super soldier looks down. “We didn’t tell you, Bucky, because it wasn’t important. I love you, Sam, just not the way that Bucky does. And I think that Sam always regretted what happened.” He shrugs helplessly. “We weren’t in a good place.” 

“What happened?” Sam’s voice is a near whisper. 

Steve gestures absentmindedly. “We were looking for Buck and hit a Hydra base. You got hurt. SHIELD was dismantled and we couldn’t risk a hospital, not with Hydra so strong. I tried...patching you up in this really shitty motel. And I started getting scared—I didn’t know what the hell to do. Neither of us had been sleeping and you kept telling me everything was going to be fine, everything we ok. I wanted to believe you. I kissed you and everything just kind of fell apart from there. We talked about it but it was just something that happened. We didn’t want anything else from each other.” 

Bucky understands. He knows what it’s like to want to find a place to get comfortable in, to have that warmth pressed against bare skin and feel like at least one thing is going right. And Sam will remember that he exchanged comfort with Bucky too, but that is not the problem. The problem is not in Bucky imagining Steve’s wide palms on Sam’s hips, his thighs—his mouth on places Bucky knew intimately. The problem is in the jealousy that churns his stomach, the disappointment that rises in his throat. It’s in realizing that Steve comes first again. For whatever reason, that small moment with Steve gets to be the thing that breaks through years of brainwashing, the forceful unremembering. Now Sam will always read safety and heat in the lines of Steve’s palms. 

“I’m glad you remember something, Sam,” Steve continues. His gaze flicks between Sam and Bucky. “I don’t know what else to tell you. This was years ago and you two are my best friends. I wouldn’t change that.”

There are several moments of heavy silence before Sam speaks. “I’ve been remembering. Flashes of things. Sometimes I can feel something, sometimes taste. This—this was the first complete thing.” He looks to Bucky. “I wanted to remember you.”

“You two should talk.” Steve tentatively touches Sam’s arm as he passes by. “I know it’s confusing, but it's going to sort itself out.”

They are alone again with the empty space closing in and constricting. 

“Are you angry?” 

Bucky shakes his head quickly, swallowing hard on the words that caught in his throat. And Sam crosses the distance and presses his lips to Bucky’s. It’s not as rough as his kiss with Steve but it’s not soft either. Bucky knows what he’s doing. He pulls back with hands on Sam’s waist. “Don’t do that. Don’t do it for me.”

“I’m not,” Sam answers. “When I kissed Steve I could remember details. I remembered how cold Sa—I felt, how it was raining, and how he tied the bandages too loose. I want to know what else I forgot. I want to remember you.” 

A sudden idea occurs to Bucky. He takes his phone from his back pocket and turns on Billie Holiday’s _I’m a Fool to Want You._

Brown eyes narrow in slight confusion. “What is this?” 

“This is your second favorite song.” 

“What’s my first?” 

Bucky thinks of Sam in his boxers as he sings along to Marvin Gaye every Sunday morning, spatula in hand and the entire house filling with the smell of breakfast. He shakes his head but can’t help the small smile that lifts the corner of his mouth. “That one is better remembered.” Fleshly hand goes out like an offering. “Dance with me.” 

_Bucky puts hands on hips and looks around at the small stack of boxes. Black marker labels each one in a bold handwriting not his own._

_“Well that’s the last of it.” Sam’s in the doorway with a small box in his arms as he toes the door closed. He grins when he catches Bucky’s eye. “Better than SHIELD’s safe house?”_

_A small smile plays on the super soldier's lips. “Just a little.” He watches the airman put the box down before crossing over to the fridge. Fleshly hand easily catches the water bottle tossed his way._

_“All you need now are some paintings, some house plants you’ll probably forget to water, and a really ugly knickknack you can’t get rid of.” He goes for the pile of boxes. “I’ll help you unpack?”_

_“You don’t have to,” Bucky says quickly. He’s nervous. Steve’s friend has already helped him find his own apartment, helped find the best therapists, and set himself as an emergency contact. Bucky does not want to feel like a burden._

_Sam smiles. “I want to.” He makes for one of the boxes and pulls out speakers. “Music or no?”_

_Bucky nods and tosses his phone over. “I don’t know if I have anything you like.”_

_The airman looks over his shoulder. “I like a lot of things.” In a few seconds, Billie Holiday fills the space and Sam snorts. “You definitely have what I like.” A beat. “Steve told me you used to be a pretty good dancer.”_

_Bucky feels the tips of his ears redden. “Steve tells people a lot of things.” He clears his throat. “Besides, that was forever ago. I doubt I remember how.”_

_“Do you want to?” Sam asks hesitantly._

_Heartbeat quickens. “What?” And Bucky is trying to recall if he was too forward, gave away too much. Because Sam is very handsome and quick to smile, but Bucky can’t hold onto a good thing to save his life. Then he remembers it’s just dancing._

_“Dance with me?”_

_Bucky nods once and tentatively closes the distance. Sam’s hand goes up as if in offering. As they get close, Bucky has to remind himself that this is just another one of Sam’s exercises in physical contact because there is nothing at all to slow dancing. But god Sam is so warm and the hand on Bucky’s back is like a lifeline. Bucky holds his breath as he gets just a little closer. And they dance until the song is done, Sam stepping back as he clears his throat. There is an empty sort of feeling that Bucky gets when he steps away._

_“Not bad for an old man,” Sam jokes. There is an expression in his face that Bucky cannot place._

Sam shakes his head. “This isn’t working.” A note of frustration rings in his voice. He breaks away and takes a quick step back.

“There’s no quick solution. You can’t rush it.”

“Why not?” Sam snaps. “How do I know how much I lost if I can’t remember? They took everything faster than I could say no. And then I get _these_ ,” wings fidget, “these things and I don’t know what you people want from me. I’m not Sam Wilson. I don’t know which scars are his. What was his aerial kill rate? I’m cohabiting and I want it to stop.”

An unexpected flare of anger born of frustration amplified by exhaustion. “It doesn’t stop. You’re going to keep cohabitating. You’re not Sam Wilson? I’m not Bucky Barnes. We’re both just wearing someone else’s face so everyone else can feel better.” Bucky’s voice is step away from yelling but right now he doesn’t care if the whole building can hear him. “I went through it too. You’ll never be the same Sam we knew, and I thought for a second that you could be. But no one can just bounce back from this. Not even you.” 

Sam’s hand hits granite countertop. “Thank you,” he breathes with heartfelt relief. “You finally admit it.” 

Bucky’s brow furrows in confusion. “What?” 

“You have been walking around here watching everything I do to see if I remember anything. Everyone else? They’re watching you, the Fist of Hydra. Now that we’ve established that I will not bounce back from this, you can stop looking like you’ve got your next mission. Don’t just focus on me. I’m fine.” 

“You…played me?” 

Sam shrugs slightly. “I’ve been playing Hydra for years until I first saw you. I told you that I trust you, but I can’t get through this if you can’t even take care of yourself.”

And Bucky suddenly realizes that he’s been going about this entirely wrong. Sam is not Bucky. Sam is not terrified of the unveiling, of the possible unraveling of identity. He’s excited to figure himself out, uncovering himself like the body under the floorboards. Exhumation. Electric currents burning away years of carefully cultivated memory could not put a damper on that personality.

The super soldier shakes his head. “You ass.”

Sam moves to touch the metal arm. "Hydra." Bare skin. "The people we used to be." Finger ghosts over the scarred space. "Us. We're in limbo and it sucks. But both of us are alive. No more tricks, not more hiding." He touches Bucky's chest. "If I remember anything I'll tell you. Promise."


	8. Chapter 8

For twenty-four hours, Bucky avoids their apartments to wander through bustling city streets. It reminds him of when he used to do the same before Steve and Sam brought him in. But he was trying to find himself then. Now he’s trying to lose himself. Feet moved absentmindedly, carry him down alleyways and gang-tagged streets. Aimless walking yields a different side to New York. Another city gets born in the bright lights and flickering streetlamps. The energy, raw and undefined gives way to something more palatable. And Bucky finds a quiet spot beneath the branches of an old oak tree, sits on an old bench with peeling green paint. 

Hands clasp together. Breath comes in a thin cloud. Time seems to move agonizingly slow. And he should be sleeping, should be in the room next to Sam-not-Sam. But, for this moment, Bucky wants this time for himself. He takes a slow breath and lets his eyes drift closed. 

_The assassin presses himself close against the wall as he keeps prosthetic hand hidden in the wide sleeves of ‘borrowed’ hoodie. At the sound of footsteps, he looks up quickly and returns his stare to the floor._

_“Hey, Barnes.” Sam’s voice is gentle._

_Bucky’s gaze flicks up to meet the airman’s. Unsure what to say, he stays silent. He remains the observer in a conversation he is reluctant to play a part in._

_Sam stands a comfortable distance away from Bucky. “What are you still doing here?”_

_“Intel. Capta—Steve requested to question me.”_

_“That sounds boring.” Brown eyes are so unbelievably gentle. “I was about to go downstairs for lunch. Do you want to come?”_

_Bucky swallows against words of agreement. “Agent Hill ordered I stay here.”_

_“I’ll have you back before curfew." Sam smiles softly, “Besides, you look like you could use a break from all this.”_

_Bucky looks at the agents on every corner with their fingers hovering near triggers of high-powered rifles. They watch him warily, cautious of Sam being so close to the living weapon as if Bucky is an explosive ready to go off. And he wants to shake his head, but Sam is so openly hopeful, so sincere. Bucky feels his stomach churn at the thought that less than a year ago he would have killed the man on an order. Bucky nods and falls into line beside the airman._

~ 

Natasha tucks her legs in and smiles like she knows one too many secrets. But of course she does. “He got you, didn’t he? Did he cry? He cried for Banner and Stark. I thought I was going to have to hand the doctor a tissue.” 

"It's not a joke, Natalia," Bucky says in Russian. His tone is clipped. He is exasperated, worn thin. 

She wraps both hands around her mug, eyes focusing on the ripples made. "I know. But it stands. He did try and manipulate you." 

A melancholy settles on Bucky’s shoulders as he leans back on Natasha’s couch with a warm mug held between both hands. “He tricked us. He tried making us believe he was really Sam again.” 

“Don’t feel bad.” She traces the handle of the mug with her thumb. “I’m kind of flattered. It’s a way of evaluating us. He wants to know where he stands in our priorities and how. If he didn’t want to know you then he wouldn’t have bothered.”

“But of course you saw right through it.” 

She shrugs. “My word doesn’t mean anything to him. Sam watches what I do and that took me a moment to catch. He’s very good at what they trained him for, I’ll give Hydra that.” 

Those words send a shiver of disgust down Bucky’s spine. “He sounds like Sam—says all the things he would. He moves and acts just like Sam…but he’s not.” 

“Obviously.” Natasha sets her cup on the floor. Pillowing her head on her arm, Natasha nudges Bucky with her foot and speaks in Russian. “He must have got to you if you’re coming to me. Don’t blame him, James. You know what it’s like trying not to seem like you’re still Hydra’s weapon.”

In English, Bucky is hesitant. Words try and make themselves small and soft. In Russian, he learned to command and obey. In Russian, he does not know hesitation. “I can’t trust him. I doubt…everything. I wonder if he isn’t just Hydra’s agent and this is all a lie.” 

“No, he hates Hydra just as much as you do. You know that. Sam’s problem is that he doesn’t know how to be _here_. We expects different things from him, and he can’t play all fields at once.” 

“He gets along with Clint just fine.” 

“Clint's convenient. And he makes himself available.” She changes back to English, switches topics as she stretches her legs to let feet rest on coffee table. “Listen, Stark wants to rent out the museum…then the library, then the zoo. He wants Sam to go wherever he wants.”

“But he can’t without drawing attention to himself. Is he still holed up in his rooms?” 

She shrugs halfheartedly. “Yes. Stark and Banner, they feel guilty. They can’t synthesize the right drug to take the pain away completely, and Sam still won’t go through with the surgery.” She pauses and waits for Bucky to meet her stare. “You know the longer he waits then the more pain he’s going to be in.”

“What are you suggesting? I’m not going to force him into a surgery he doesn’t want. You remember what Hydra was going to do to him.” 

“If he doesn’t change his mind soon then his rate of healing is going to hurt his chance at a successful surgery. Better to try and convince him now.” 

Bucky leans against the couch, fingers pushing stray strands of hair from his eyes. “You want me to put pressure on him. I can’t do that. He’s in control now. You know just as well as I do how important that is.” 

“It’s for his benefit. I would do it, you know I would. But this won’t work without trust. Sam doesn’t trust anyone but you come pretty close.” She stands languidly and arches her back. “But you’re right. Maybe those Bruce and Stark will come up with something.” 

-

Bucky takes a breath, shifts paper bag full of takeout from one arm to the other, and knocks sharply on Sam’s apartment door. Silence greets him for a full eight seconds before he hears the sounds of a pistol being disassembled then reassembled. 

“Sam,” Bucky calls loud enough to be heard through the door. “I got you something. Please, open the door.” 

A moment of silence. Feet shuffle across the floor and the door cracks open. 

_“Je ne veux pas te voir.”_ Sam grinds the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I can’t…I don’t want to see you right now.” 

It’s barely a glimpse, but Bucky feels his heart stutter at the sight of Sam. The airman looks haggard, eyes tired and beads of sweat lining his brow. Bucky meets his one-time partner’s stare and holds it. “Please. Two minutes, I promise.” 

“You talked to Romanoff,” Sam says as he opens the door. He leans heavily against the frame and seems to collect energy before he pushes off of it with a slowness laced with pain. 

Words get stuck in the back of his throat. Bucky swallows hard. “You didn’t have to pretend. You didn’t have lie to me.” 

Sam rolls his shoulders as if sore. “You’re not special. I didn’t lie to just you—I lied to everyone.”

This isn’t Sam at all. This is the reanimated corpse, a Frankenstein monster. And Bucky knows the vulnerability and the fear of being disposable. He knows the numbness and the overwhelming pain. There is always the feeling of being the crash test dummy, the fresh body cut open for everyone to get their hands inside of. The almost autopsy. 

“You’re a liar,” he breathes. It’s not biting, it is fact.

“You’re morose.” Sam jerks his chin toward Bucky. “It must have really messed you up—me being gone. I can’t see how I’d be attracted to you like this.” 

Barnes takes a moment to look around at the litter of paper on the floor, the way the furniture has been pushed against the wall, the disassembled weapons on the floor. “It did. I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t. I killed every Hydra agent I could, I didn’t go back home, I couldn’t sleep without the nightmares of you falling. And it doesn’t compare to yours—“

Sam rubs his forehead as he tries to hide the tremor running through his body. _“Que veux-tu?”_ What do you want? “It's too late to cater to your self-pity.” 

Worry is starting to creep in as Sam forgets which is supposed to be the primary language. Something happened in the twenty-four hours he spent away. “Sam—”

“All you had to do was be here,” Sam snaps. Hands clench into fists, gaze fixed firmly on the ground. “I needed—” He cuts himself off with a growl of frustration.

Bucky puts the takeout on the kitchen counter, wipes hands absentmindedly on pants, and inhales slowly. “I’m bad for you. Steve said it before, but not the way he meant it.” He keeps his stare fixed on the ground. Looking at Sam will only make him hurt a hundred times more. “Everyone thinks I have the answers on how to fix you. I don’t so I made a mistake and I ran. But we can have mistakes here, sometimes a failure is just a failure. I’m not going to abandon you, Sam, but it’s your choice if you want me here.” 

Sam opens his mouth as if to speak, but wings shift in absence of thought. At this slightest movement, the airman clenches his fists so tightly that knuckles pop. Body begins a violent trembling as if an earthquake is working its way up his spine. Bucky closes the distance, catches Sam in waiting arms when knees buckle. 

“God, Sam, you’re burning up.” Bucky shifts metal arm to wrap around the other’s waist and hold him upright. “I’ll call Banner.”

“Stop.” The command is clipped short, teeth clenching. Sam pushes away, steadies himself against the wall as he slowly unfurls his wings like unclenching fists. A slow breath cuts through the silence. His body trembles with slow breaths. “I want to fly.”

“You can barely stand let alone fly,” Bucky hisses under his breath. “I’m taking you to the Tower.” 

“Not yet.” Sam grabs Bucky’s wrist and nearly guides him out the door. “Help me to the roof. I have one good flight left in me.” 

Bucky digs his heels in and makes him stop before he gets to the stairwell. “You’re pushing your luck flying around like that. You get caught then that’s the end.” 

Sam seems about to shrug before he thinks better of it. “So I won’t get caught.” 

“Every time you go out, Fury’s thinking about extra security measures. I’m not trying to put you in a prison, Sam, but you have to be careful.

A beat. “You really think I’d risk getting caught again? You know just as well as I do that Hydra is going to come. But every frequency is monitored, every security feed analyzed. I  
want somewhere to fly because that’s the one thing I have left.” Sam sighs softly. “But I wouldn’t risk getting caught. I wouldn’t risk either of us going back to that.” 

“There’ll be other flights. I’ll drive you somewhere better.”

Wings shift again and Sam barely stops short of driving his fist into the drywall. “I’m fine,” he grits out between clenched teeth. Fists are clenched so tight that hands shake.  
After a moment, Sam wipes palms roughly on his pants. Hands go to grasp absentminded handfuls of his shirt. A stare is fixed on a spot on the floor. He stands so still he might have been a statue carved from marble. And then he starts a rapid breathing. Staccatos of breaths forced through the nose. And Bucky’s hands hover a paper thin distance over his skin. 

“Sam, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing—something.” He rubs his face roughly, and a low groan escapes through clenched teeth. “The lights—turn off the lights.” 

Bucky does as he is told, pitching the room into a near darkness. Sam breathes a little easier. The tension bleeds somewhat from his shoulders. He turns to Bucky and says, “It's the conditioning. Sometimes, the more I remember, the more it hurts.”

“What did you remember?” Bucky tries not to sound hopefully, but he does. 

Seconds tick by. Sam turns slowly on his heel, goes to stand by the window with arms folded tight. He looks down at the busy city streets. Lips press in a thin line as if unsure whether or not to answer. 

“Alright, Sam,” Bucky breathes. “I can go.” 

The airman looks up sharply, something akin to fear illuminated by passing headlights before it disappears. “Stay.” It is almost a question. 

Bucky nods before he goes and leans against the wall just out of arm’s reach. Sam’s back is to him. Silence gets broken by the backfire of a car, shouts of profanity. New York sounds. 

“On missions,” Sam says in a voice like a hum, “did you ever have to sit alone for days at a time? No one else. Just yourself, the gun. Just waiting.”

Bucky gives him a long stare. “Yes,” he replies carefully. 

“Did you feel relieved?”

Bucky traces a fingernail along a crack in the wall. He tries not to remember those days anymore. “They can’t touch you in the field. No memory wipes, no hospitals. No one can alter anything or condition you.”

“You hope for those moments because being alone is the best thing you can get.” He turns to face Bucky. And in the near darkness, he almost looks afraid. “You—all of you—changed things. It’s harder to be alone now. But you more than the others—I need you to be here.” 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay right here,” Bucky promises.

The corner of Sam's mouth goes up in the barest hint of a smile. "I think you would try."


End file.
